Taps For Laila

The key, Laila thought, was to keep touching everything. As long as she
kept touching everything she'd be okay. As long as she kept to her
routine there would be no trouble. She had routines, routines to be
kept to, routines which couldn't be broken, for if they were, there'd
be trouble. Trouble, Laila knew, was a very bad thing. So she kept
touching everything.

Every morning she woke in her white bed, smoothed the bedclothes
with a loving hand, and padded softly downstairs to the kitchen. The
shiny silver doorknob felt cool beneath her hand as she gently traced a
finger around it - clockwise, never counter-clockwise - before grasping
it and pulling the door open. Her hand swept over the smooth polished
wood of the banister as she slowly made her way down the stairs, the
familiar route comforting. Her other hand gently tapped the wall, once
for ever step, and there were fourteen steps. That meant fourteen taps
for Laila.

Fourteen taps for Laila, taps for Laila, taps for Laila.

The last step couldn't be stepped on - she had to hop the last step.
This scared Laila - what if she fell? Who would help her then? The
routine would be broken if she fell and she'd have to start over, but
it'd never be perfect. If she hadn't done it right the first time it'd
never be perfect. And then there'd be trouble.

She slowly padded into the kitchen, eyes down inspecting her clean
floor, bare feet sticking to the linoleum so that when she lifted them
there was a sound like that of Velcro being ripped apart. Laila liked
Velcro. She also liked bubble wrap.

She tapped the countertop twice with her left hand, tapped the shelf
once with her right and suddenly, mid-routine, stopped. Something was
wrong. In fact, two things were wrong. And those two things were a pair
of large black shiny shoes, staring up at her from her nice clean
floor. The shoes contrasted hideously with her white linoleum. Laila
hated black. Black made her sad.

The key, she knew, was to keep touching everything. Her hand reached
out to touch the fridge, but instead of meeting the cold, hard,
slightly bumpy surface she'd come to know, she encountered warm, soft,
slightly clammy flesh. Fingers tried to grip her, but she recoiled in
horror and stepped back, still keeping her gaze firmly down. Her hands
fell to her sides, trembling slightly. She watched the black shoes
suspiciously as they took a step towards her. Apparently these shoes
had an occupant.

"Miss Wright?" A peevish, unpleasant voice inquired. Laila didn't
like the sound of this voice. "Miss Wright, please, I'm Dr Shaw. Your
brother tells me you've been living here by yourself for three years?"
The nasally voice continued. Why did it continue? Laila refused to
answer it.

Maybe, she thought, maybe if I start my routine again it'll go away.
She began to retrace her steps, never turning her back on those black
shiny shoes. Who knew what would happen if she did that? There would be
trouble for sure.

Laila retraced her steps, stepping carefully over the first step and
tapping the wall with her left hand, once for every step, and there
were fourteen steps. That meant fourteen taps for Laila.

Fourteen taps for Laila, taps for Laila, taps for Laila.

Her other hand swept over the polished wood of the banister, but the
familiarity and comfort of her routine had gone.
"Miss Wright, please. I'm here to help you."

The black shoes were following her.

The shiny silver doorknob to her room felt cold beneath her hand as
she gently traced a finger around it - counter-clockwise, never
clockwise - before grasping it and pushing the door open. The shoes
were still following her. She quickened her pace, her breath hitched in
her chest from panic. She let out a low moan and tripped backwards onto
her bed, eyes widening. She'd touched the bed before she'd tapped the
bedside table. The routine was completely ruined. Now there'd be
trouble.

A wail filled her ears, and it took a moment for Laila to realise
that it was her own voice she was hearing. She hadn't spoken in such a
long time the sound was rusty, grating. It was her own screams that
were causing her throat such pain. She needed to tap the bedside table
then she'd be fine. She just needed to tap the bedside table. She
needed to tap it, to restart the routine, to stop the trouble.

The black shoes were moving quickly around her now, a black bag
joining them on the floor. She could barely see the shoes now, her eyes
were too full of tears, her ears too full of screams. She reached a
trembling arm out to the bedside table and felt a sharp jab of pain,
followed by pressure as something stung her arm. She screamed again,
but already her disused voice sounded weaker. She was growing tired, so
tired. Maybe when she woke up she could begin her routine again, but
she just needed to tap the bedside table. She knew that if she tapped
it everything would be okay.

Laila's arm reached for the bedside table, and then stopped, falling
short, swinging to hit the bed with a dull thud, and Laila moved no
more.

FIN.