Hurt People Hurt People

Chapter Nineteen:

What do you say when someone that you love doesn't want to be here anymore? What words can truly make sense of the pain, the feeling that a person just punched a hole right through your heart?

I didn't know. 'Sorry' seemed so trivial and pathetic, like something you'd say after bickering about politics, or when you accidentally nudge into someone on the street. 'Are you okay' was equally ridiculous as she very clearly wasn't - yet I found these two debunked choices made up 90% of what came out of my mouth when I regained enough composure to speak. I didn't cry. I couldn't. There was too much whirring around my head; my brain felt like it was about to implode. Perhaps that was why "I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, so so sorry" was the best of my eloquence that night.

My parents were now fully aware of the situation, and by around five Leah's grandparents - who lived just down the road from me - picked me up and took me with them on to see their grandchild.

It was agonizing to pull up in the dark street and see the downstairs light was on, like a beacon in the blackness. I knew she was in that room, yet just couldn't get to her quickly enough. It was obviously right to let her Gran and Grandad go through the door and see her first, so I dropped to a slow walk, taking my time to remove my shoes in the dimly lit hallway and inhaling deeply to calm my nerves. I waited a minute or so before I could stand it any longer. Giving up, I pulled the handle down and took a step into the room.

Immediately my eyes focused in on her. She was lying on the sofa, tucked in with a think blanket, a bowl beside her. Her mum was leaning by her head, her grandparents perched at the end of the seat by her legs. She was luminously pale, her eyes bloodshot with blue rings beneath them. Her died red locks were in boxer braids that were falling apart, hair frizzing out each weave. She wore a t-shirt that showed her arms, meaning I could see the horrific purple bruise formed where the drip had been inserted yesterday.

I'd spent the ten minute car drive there preparing myself for the very worst I could imagine. I saw terrible images of her black and blue, but knew I was being ridiculous. I settled for her being disheveled, but upright, maybe even standing. Leah, so full of attitude and dirty humour, confidence in her own beauty, viewed so heartily by men in this area as a sex symbol, all of which she revelled in - here, crumpled on the sofa, looking fragile and as breakable as an old women.

My heart broke a little more.

****

"You don't look so great yourself, Layla," Alex fretted.

He was right. We'd gone back to his place after popping in to see Leah and I'd just mentioned how seeing her look so ill frightened me, to which he responded that. I wasn't wearing make up passed some eyebrow pencil, my hair was scraped back in a scrawny ponytail and I was in hoodie and jeans. I never wore hoodies. I hated the whole image around them, and would have rathered wear a shirt. Yet there I was. It was obvious to Alex I was sick again.

I let my eyelids droop and my head loll a little on to his chest. "I know."

"Want to talk?"

"There's nothing much to say, really, is there?" I sighed, rubbing my eyes and yawning. "God, I haven't slept in an age."

"You can sleep now, if you like," he offered, stroking my hair.

"No, no I won't. Your Dad's back soon, isn't he? But thank you for the suggestion."

"It doesn't matter if Dad is back or not, you can sleep if you like to. And you should," he said, his tone slightly harder, almost unnoticeably. I realised I was treading on sensitive ground, backing up a bit.