Page 21 of August and the Night

I swallow hard, feeling a lump forming in my throat. "I know," I whisper, tears welling up in my eyes. "But I won't let him affect me."

I stand in front of the mirror, looking at the bruise that formed from my father's hard slap. For a moment, I contemplate covering it up, hiding the evidence of his actions. But then I make a decision – I will not hide his wrongdoings. I never did in the past, and I won't start now.

"Layla?" Lily's voice breaks my thoughtful trance.

"I won't cover it," I say firmly, meeting her gaze with determination. "I won't let him make me feel ashamed of what he did."

Lily smiles softly, her eyes filled with admiration. "I will support whatever decision you make, Layla," she says.

I nod, feeling a sense of relief wash over me. "Thank you, Lily," I say, my voice trembling. "I don't know what I would do without you."

"You'll never have to find out," Lily replies with a small smile. "We'll face everything together, and we'll find a way to break free from all of this."

20

Layla

I gather my belongings and prepare to leave the suffocating confines of the house. A familiar presence catches my attention through the window, John is waiting for me outside, ready to accompany me to university. I grab my coat, determined to face the day despite how jarred I am feeling.

Just as I am about to step out, a rough hand grabs my arm, and I turn to face my father. His demand is clear and forceful. "Layla, cover that bruise," he orders, his tone brooking no argument.

I feel a surge of defiance rise within me, and I lock eyes with him. "No," I state firmly, my voice steady despite the anger that simmers beneath the surface.

Before the tension between us can escalate further, Lily rushes over with a weird sway in her hips I have never seen before. She leans in, whispering something into his ear. My father's expression shifts with something that I can't quite decipher.

A strange transformation comes over father's features as he looks at Lily. There is a hint of something dark in his black eyes. I watch in disbelief as he seems almost entranced by her. A sense of unease settles in the pit of my stomach. What is Lily saying to him?

Lily's whispered words seem to snap him out of his mood, and his grip on my arm loosens. I pull away, taking a step back, my mind racing with confusion. Did I just imagine that? Could Lily really have that kind of influence over him?

I make my way out of the house, the feeling of disgust mingles with my confusion. I can't believe what I think I saw, but I am left grappling with the unsettling thought that Lily might be using her charm to manipulate my father, her uncle. Yet, I force myself to shake off those doubts. There's no way Lily could do that, I reassure myself, heading out to meet John.

John and I walk to the car, and I notice a certain tension in his demeanor. His usual calm and composed exterior seems slightly strained, and I can't shake off the feeling that he is angry. The bruise on my cheek must have caught his attention, and I can almost sense his protective instincts flaring up.

I glance at him from the corner of my eye, observing the clench of his jaw and the intensity in his gaze. It is as if he is struggling to contain rage, rage that I suspect is directed at the person responsible for the mark on my face – my own father.

We get into the car, and the silence between us feels heavy with unspoken words. I know that John is fiercely loyal and cares deeply for my well-being. His reaction is understandable, yet he maintains his restraint, refusing to let his anger show.

He starts the car and we pull away from the house and I finally speak up. "John," I begin tentatively, "you don't have to hold back. I know you're angry."

He glances at me briefly, his expression filled with anguish that makes my heart hurt. "Layla, I…" he pauses, searching for the right words. “I want to make sure you're safe and protected. It kills me that the person who is hurting you the most is the one I can't protect you from."

The crack in his voice and his hands that are clenched on the steering wheel are a clear indication of his struggle to balance his feelings with his professionalism. I appreciate everything he does for me and don't want to burden him further.

"Thank you, John," I say softly, reaching over to rest my hand on his arm briefly. "I promise I will be fine."

He gives me a small, reassuring smile before focusing back on the road. The rest of the journey passes in a comfortable silence.

When John pulls up to the university, I grab my bag and open the car door. Before I step out, I turn to him. "I'll see you later, John." I say warmly and he nods his head.

I hurry through the hallways of the university, my head is bowed, my steps quick and purposeful. I can't shake off the sudden loss of courage I feel about showcasing my bruised cheek. My courage is long forgotten, now replaced with anxiety. I have now realized that the last thing I want is for anyone to see me in this state; I wish that I wasn't so stubborn and just covered it with makeup. The thought of their pitying glances or questioning stares makes my heart race, and I can't bear the idea of exposing my vulnerability to the world.

Finally, I reach the familiar doors of my lab, and as I enter, a sense of relief washes over me. Hours pass by in a blur as I immerse myself in my research, the rhythmic hum of the equipment providing a comforting backdrop.

Suddenly, a hand on my shoulder startles me, and I let out an involuntary squeak. I turn to find my professor standing there, concern etched on his handsome features. His gaze flickers to my bruised cheek, and I see a flash of pity in his eyes that he quickly conceals.

"Layla, you've been working for hours," he says, his voice gentle. "You need to take a break."

I nod, feeling a mix of awkwardness and gratitude. "I just wanted to make some progress," I mumble, not meeting his eyes.

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