Page 25 of For the Love of Layla

At least heroin keeps him mostly docile. It’s scary though. It’s been years since he picked up the new habit and I still haven’t gotten used to seeing him like that. The way he groans and his eyes roll back in his skull, his mouth lagging open as drool trickles from the corners of his mouth. I’m no longer allowed at grandpa’s because dad is scared I might ask for help. I guess that makes sense. Grandpa has always been one of the few that isn’t fooled by his masks, the different faces he wears. He can go from the stand-up fun loving yet firm father and the next minute make my life so fucking hellish I contemplate ending it all together.

Just a few more years I can go to college. I can be a journalist, expose liars and assholes just like him. Maybe even people worse than him. It’s hard to imagine there are people worse, but I know that’s just me being dramatic.

Thud!

I jump, making the metal roof dig into my back as a loud sound comes from inside the trailer, he probably passed out. A sliver of anxiety stirs within me. Why do I care? I’ve seen it a hundred times before. I should go check on him. I take a deep breath as I sit up. The metal from the roof scrapes along the back of my thighs as I lower down onto the railing, but I don’t care. I’m already the “gross” girl at school.

Even that’s only when someone actually bothers to look at me.

I steady myself as I press my ear to the back door. Only the TV playing faintly comes through the wood. No weird groaning or mumbling passing through the paper thin door. I twist the nob entering the house, careful not to make a sound. It’s just out of habit, even though I’m sure he’s probably far too fucked up to fight with me tonight. My blood runs cold as my eyes land on dad laying on his back on the kitchen floor, the smell of old food and stale carpet churning my stomach the way it always does.

Oh shit.

I walk slowly to him. His eyes are open, staring at nothing at all. The smell of vomit hits me as I get closer, he doesn’t look good. His tanned skin is blue and ashy. His breath coming in as strangled pants.

I need to get help.

I kneel beside him, pressing my hand to his clammy face. His skin is tacky and weird. Like skin on a plucked turkey. “Dad?”

No answer.

I shake him a little, which makes him groan, and makes me flinch even though I know rationally I’m not the one in danger. I stand quickly, running over to the home phone before returning to his side. I’m about to call for help when I pause. The silence in the room stretches on and on as I watch his chest rise and fall, getting slower and weaker with each breath. I nearly jump out of my skin when his eyes flutter open. I quickly kneel beside him, dialing the numbers. Doing the right thing even though my fingers feel like lead weights.

9…

1…

Slap!

A squeak leaves my mouth as dad slaps the phone from my hands, his dark brown eyes trained on me although I don’t think he’s actually looking at me at all. The glassy tint to his eyes tells me he’s somewhere far from the smelly trailer we’re trapped inside. An iron like grip forms around my small wrist, and I brace myself for pain that doesn’t come. We sit like that for a while as his grasp weakens bit by bit. As my ridiculous tears fall he slips further and further away. I fight the urge to shake his hand off and hold it tightly in mine. Why am I crying? Why does this hurt so badly? The number of times I’ve begged the universe to take him… now that it’s happening, I just want to take it all back, but I can’t. He’s dead and I’m free.

I’m finally free.

Liam

I tip back the rest of my absinthe, closing my eyes as the earthy liquor slides down my throat. It’s been damn near impossible to come down since last night. Going on little to no sleep, trying to distract myself from the high Layla gives me. I try to affix my attention on the ninety-eight-inch TV screen in front of me. None of the pictures moving around on it can keep my interest for longer than a minute at a time. My gaze slides to my phone that lays face down on the table. I don’t mean to pick it up. Nor do Imeanto pull up the app I use to monitor the cameras in her house. My pulse thuds like a steam engine when the loading screen blimps to a black one.

Error cameras offline.

The security company she used must’ve found them. I lock the screen as my hand tightens around my phone, my reflection taunting me. Now why would you go and do a thing like that, baby? After everything we shared last night. It was perfect, you were perfect.

Now you’ve gone and messed it all up.

Crack!

“Stop that,” Brandon’s voice pulls me from my homicidal thoughts, his arm outstretched, pointing at me. His headset still positioned firmly on his head. I raise my eyebrows at him. I know that if I speak now, I’ll say something… incorrect. Not that he would particularly care, Brandon is one of the few thatknowme. Despite his complaining, it’s never bothered him much either way.

“I can’t focus with your Ted Bundy looking ass over there.” He complains, gesturing to the video game he’s playing. The blue LED’s surrounding my TV makes my inky living room look even darker.

“You could always go to your house.”

His mouth drops open as he jerks off the headset, “This game only came out a few hours ago! I’ve hardly had adequate game time. Your TV is bigger.”

I finally release my phone, curling my lip up at the cracked screen, grateful for his annoying and effective distraction technique.

“You’re a millionaire. Buy one for yourself.”

“That’s a waste of money! Yours is perfectly fine, plus I can keep an eye on you here.”

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