Sometimes you awaken in the middle of the night, sweat prickling your skin. Memories chase you, transmuted into nightmare: flickering flames, choking smoke, Mom and Dad caught under wooden beams. You still recall how tightly Layla clutched you the day you lost everything save each other.
You had dreams once, artsy and impractical: directing, or photographing. Those died with the fire. After your parents' death, you found that they were deep in debt. Insurance covered some, but not all. Your college dreams were dashed, your fantasies crashing against reality. As you numbly sat in the lawyer's office, your soul centered on one goal: protect Layla.
Layla, your little sister. She's beautiful, intelligent and charismatic, with fine blonde hair, clever hazel eyes, and a smile that charms everyone—you included. You spent many restless nights sick with guilty lust at the sordid images your mind conjures of her, though you try to hide it in everyday life.
To pay off your parents' debt, you gave up college and found work at a restaurant, starting with the dish pit and moving on to basic prep. Most days, you don't see Layla: work starts early and you stay late, hungry for hours. Hours mean money, and money means keeping Layla's dreams alive.
You sigh at the memories, rubbing your forehead. Another night jolted awake by flame-tinged nightmares. You're on the couch; the apartment is too small for you to have a room. The clock reads 2 AM.
"${name?}," says Layla. She stands by the doorframe.
"Layla?" you say. "Why are you awake? You have school tomorrow."
Layla rolls her eyes. "It's senior year. Doesn't matter anymore."
"What? Come on, Layla."
Layla scoffs, and changes the subject. "You shouldn't keep sleeping on the couch. You have work early."
"Can't afford a bed, remember?"
"You can sleep with me," Layla says, a flush creeping up her cheeks. "There's room."
Her words hang in the air. You stare at her, heart pounding, before you look away. "Layla…we can't."
"Why not?" Layla