Monday:
"Harry, please. Please, get out of bed."
The choked plea, the somber tone- it barely filters in through the fog clogging my brain. The dense and ominous fog that had settled in as soon as the shot rang out a few days ago –and I can still hear it echoing.
As soon as I saw the life fade out from Layla's once bright eyes.
It's been three days now and the mist has yet to lift. No, it has just grown so opaque that I don't know if I will ever see the light again.
It weighs down on me like a thick blanket; warming me with my guilt, with my pain.
Loyal and true.
The strength of it has halted me from getting out of bed, from facing what happened that day and what has happened since.
It took the paramedics less than five minutes to stitch up my arm, the nurse ten minutes to deduce that two of my ribs on the right side of my body were broken, and just an hour of tests to prove that I had suffered a pretty severe concussion.
But, the seconds felt like minutes and the minutes felt like hours and every single day since I was released from the hospital has only succeeded in making me detest the illusion of time.
I've been a zombie since; healing from my injuries by lying in bed and pretending I don't exist.
By keeping myself awake so that I don't have to dream... the images of Layla bleeding out in my arms, the color draining from her face, and the sad smile on her lips... taunting me every time I shut my eyes.
It's all too much.
I can feel Eliza's presence in the doorway behind me, waiting for a response. Waiting for action.
But, what is the point?
The groan of immense pain as I roll further away from her is my only answer and I try not to feel guilty when she heaves a great sigh. She's been doing that a lot recently –that and crying, of course.
I haven't cried since the hospital. I fear I'm growing numb, though, maybe that might be better.
"Layla wouldn't want you to do this, Harry. She wouldn't want this at all."
But, who knows what Layla would want now?
The light has been snuffed out.
Wednesday:
A soft caress startles me awake.
The fingers warm and gentle, tracing my cheek and brushing back my hair with a softness that implies fragility. As if stroking a pyramid of playing cards –afraid it might crumble at your touch.
Maybe I will.
But, that gentle touch, that warm hand... for a second, just a minuscule second, I believe that the hand belongs to Layla and that the earth has righted itself.
For just a second after waking I believe that Layla is the cause of the weight dipping my mattress, that her hand is the one offering a comforting touch -that the sun had risen once again.
And when the cruel truth of reality comes crashing down on me it feels like my heart is ripped from my chest before it even has time to heal- the wound gaping and pouring a viscous blood that never stops flowing.
It just bleeds forever.
When my eyelids crack open and are met with eyes the same shade of green as my own I try not to let the aching disappoint show.
She has pulled back the curtains –the offensive sunlight causing me to go momentarily blind as I adjust to the brightness. A light I hadn't expected to see ever again, a light that doesn't seem to belong in a world that has grown so dark.
How can the sun still shine after everything that happened? How can there still be light when I am shrouded in darkness?
How can the sun still shine down on all of us when Layla is not here to feel it's warmth?
"Mum?"
I wince against the grainy texture of my throat –my voice coming out as a croak from lack of use. My mother's face falls at the sound and I try not to notice how sallow her skin has become –how the bags under her eyes resemble bruises, and how her once dark luxurious hair has begun to sprout back in grey sparse patches.
I can't contemplate my mother's declining health right now. I can't handle anymore impending grief. I think I would wither at the prospect of more sorrow than this –my heart might begin to rot.
"Harry, darling... Why are you doing this?"
But, she knows perfectly well why I am like this.
She was there, at the hospital, waiting for us when the ambulance came to a screeching halt outside the emergency room doors. She waited with me while they wheeled an unconscious Layla to the operation room. She held my hand while a nurse stitched up my arm and she accompanied me to the CAT they took of my head.
She helped me change my bandages and made sure to wake me every ten minutes when I did manage to sleep. Not that I could really sleep for more than ten minutes when all I saw behind my eyelids was Layla's lifeless eyes.
And she was there when the doctor came to update us on Layla's condition. She caught me when I collapsed and rocked me when I broke down in tears.
She witnessed every gruesome detail of that day.
But, I answer her anyway, the words like poison on my tongue, "I couldn't save her, mum... I-I couldn't do anything."
She is shaking her head before I even finish my sentence, "She saved your life, Harry! She jumped in front of that gun because of her love for you and there wasn't anything you could've done to stop her and you know it," Her throat catches her and she looks towards the open window now, eyes shining, "Although I may never be able to repay her saving my son, you still can. But, lying in bed and don't nothing all day to avoid the truth is a cowardly and you know it."
And I do know it.
My eyes sting and my throat closes and I bury my face into her lap as the tears begin to flow –choking me with their release. I thought I was so brave running into that house and tackling that psycho with the gun, but now I'm too spineless to even leave my room.
"I can't face it mum... This is all my fault."
She tugs my hair lightly and I meet her gaze, though her face is distorted in my blurry vision. Her sympathetic gaze has shifted to one of anger and irritation.
"You know damn well it's not, Harry. I will have none of that –you aren't at fault and neither is Layla. The only person at fault here is the man that fired the gun."
Even if there is some truth to her statement the voice in the back of my head still continues to scold and blame me. He won't stop and he won't quiet down. He demands to be heard and I am a willing listener.
That bullet was meant for you, Harry. It was supposed to be you, not her. IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE YOU.
The thought is so loud I squeeze my eyes shut against it, my whole body tensing from the logic of it. The guilt choking me just like Louis choked Layla, though my bruises can only be seen from within.
"What am I supposed to do, mum? Tell me what to do."
Her smile is soft, her eyes stern, "I don't need to tell you, Harry. You know what you need to do."
Thursday:
The stench of death permeates from every surrounding wall, drips down from the ceiling, and wafts up from the ceramic tiling of the floor like volatile tendrils wrapping around you and wanting to drag you down too.
The pungency of it makes me nauseous, makes my head ache more than it already does.
The weight of my guilt coupled with the weight of my shame from listening to that guilt makes my legs wobble as I make my way down the disinfected hallway. Of course, that may also have something to do with the pain of my broken ribs still healing.
The closer I get to the room, the closer I get to facing what I have been avoiding for days the louder the voices grow.
This should be you, Harry. The bullet was meant for you and Layla was the one who was shot. This should be you, Harry. You worthless piece of shit.
With shaky knees and a shakier heart I reach the designated room to find Eliza and Niall already there, speaking in low tones and staring out the window in the corner of the barren room. Their faces solemn and eyes dark.
I avoid letting my eyes roam further than that.
They both turn when they hear the scuffle of footsteps, faces relaxing when they see that it's me and not some doctor coming to give them more bad news regarding Layla.
"Harry!" They say in unison, proud smiles curling at the edges of their mouths and arms outstretched towards me in surprise.
Their reaction only makes me feel worse, the voice louder than ever. They had been here every day, taking shifts, and I hadn't visited once.
I'd been in bed wallowing in self-pity and they were here –where I should have been.
Eliza shoots Niall a reproachful glance and they both come towards me slowly –as if afraid I might bolt otherwise.
Niall's hand clasps my shoulder and he sends me an encouraging smile, "We'll let you have a moment alone."
I nod, unable to really respond to the kind gesture and Eliza's hopeful grin is just as stunting. Before they are fully out of the room, Niall turns to face me one more time.
"I'm really glad you came, mate."
But, shame catches the reply in my throat.
It takes me almost a full five minutes before my feet gain enough strength to lead me over to the bed, before my eyes can even absorb that part of the room. And then, it seems, much too quickly, I am at the foot of the bed and there she is-
Layla.
Though, she doesn't look like my Layla at all. Barely even looks like a person at all.
There is a breathing tube down her throat that makes a loud whooshing sound with her every breath, the beat of her pulse on the machine working in perfect harmony to create one terrifying symphony.
There are so many needles and wires attached to her it looks as if she is part robot.
White gauze almost covers every inch of available skin; wrapped around her right palm, her left shoulder and upper arm, and one thick piece coiled around her head. A heavy neck brace covers the bruises I know are there, but all her other contusions are on full display.
Yellow and purple angry splotches cover every inch of skin not covered by a bandage, including the ones under her eyes that stand out against her pale skin.
She looks... dead.
The only sign of life comes from the rise and fall of her chest as well as the steady beep reflecting her every heartbeat on the machine.
But, the warm glow that always seemed to emanate from her presence has vanished. Has been snuffed out completely.
That should be you, Harry. That should be you on that bed struggling for life. Not Layla. This is your fault. All your fault.
I suck in a breath through my teeth, the tears springing to my eyes again as I catalogue every single injury inflicted on Layla, though I know there are plenty more that I can't see.
Plenty more injuries that resulted in so much blood loss Layla went into shock before we even reached the hospital. So much damage, that one of her kidneys had to be removed and her lung reflated because the bullet travelled downwards once it ripped through her lung.
Too much damage.
Her body had taken too many hits, the life almost drained out of her one too many times...
She closed her eyes after being shot inside that house and she hasn't opened them since. The doctors have done everything they can possibly do for her, but it isn't enough. Too much blood loss, too much internal damage.
She slipped into a coma and they aren't sure if she will ever come out of it.
And every day that passes only seems to push down the hope inside of everyone that she will eventually open her eyes again. The chances growing less and less plausible.
I crumble at the sight of her bruised and battered face. I let the anguish swallow me whole.
"I'm sorry," I choke, my whole body trembling with grief, "I'm so sorry, Layla."
Sorry for not visiting her until now. Sorry for selling Louis those paintings. Sorry for not believing her about the frog. Sorry for not being able to save her.
Just sorry that she deserves so much more than this life.
It should have been me.
Layla didn't deserved this -she never deserved any of this. All she wanted was to be loved and to love someone in return.
She didn't deserve this.
The tears don't stop until my throat runs dry and the sun begins to set. Another day passes and Layla still doesn't open her eyes. She just lays there... lifeless, the machine breathing for her.
I grab her hand in mine and try not to cringe at how cold and unresponsive the skin feels, hating myself from staying away for so long.
Hating myself for being so cowardly after Layla was so courageous.
I squeeze the hand, eyes zeroed in on Layla's and willing them to open, "I won't leave your side again. I'll be here when you wake up, Layla. I promise."
Friday:
"I've already told you everything I know."
Officer Daniels taps his pen against the pad he wrote my statement on the first time I gave it to him, eyes shifting to his partner quickly before meeting mine again. He's the same cop that laughed at us when we came to file a report. The same cop that turned us away just a few weeks ago.
I ignore their presence, more focused on making sure to keep my strokes gentle as I brush the tangles out of Layla's matted hair.
I ignore them because I'm afraid I may choke Daniels if I look at his sweaty, chubby face.
They've already washed it twice, but I still come across crusted blood where her hair meets her neck. The must've missed it because of the neck brace, but I am quick to scrub it away –the skin red I pull away.
I idly wonder which one of ours that drop of blood was. It could've been anyone's there was so much of it...
"We just need to know if Mr. Tomlinson acted alone or with others. We need to be sure that Ms. Scott is free from danger," the bobby explains patiently, but I can see his eyes land anywhere but on Layla's damaged face.
"Does it look like she's free from danger?"
The remark is scathing, flying from my mouth before I can swallow it back down and the second officer -a woman that looks much too young to be in the force- puts her palms up in a defensive mode.
"No need to be hostile, Mr. Styles. We're only trying to help, here."
My hand freezes as it reaches the ends of Layla's hair and my eyes narrow into a vicious glare -directed at Daniels.
"You should've helped when Layla came to you in the first place, "I bite and relish in the guilt that flashes across Daniels' beady eyes, "If you had we would never have been in this mess. Layla wouldn't have had to kill someone and she wouldn't be lying in this bed right now barely breathing."
The cop swallows harshly, face flushing as he finally assesses the damage inflicted on Layla. His arms fall to his sides in defeat and he has to look away, eyes shining under the fluorescents.
I want to take back the accusation instantly, but the words hang between us. Heavy and full of regret. I know that it wasn't his fault –not really, at least. He was just doing his job.
It's all your fault, Harry.
"I'm sorry-"
I cut him off, sighing, "No, don't. I'm sorry... this, this isn't your fault. I'm just having a hard time coping with everything."
The man nods his head, though his eyes are still full of shame. It's his partner that speaks first, voice cautious like speaking to a deranged man wielding a knife.
"We understand. We'll leave you alone for now, but we will be back to question Ms. Scott when she wakes up... and she will wake up, hon. Don't worry about that."
The sentiment is oddly comforting and I watch them hobble through the door slowly, Daniels pausing as if to turn around and say something, but he chooses not to and follows his partner out. And I am alone.
Alone because even though Layla is lying right next to me, she might as well not even exist.
I can't even feel her anymore –even when she slept next to me, I could somehow still feel her warmth radiating from her skin. Like the sun was actually radiating in her core.
That warmth has disappeared and left me shivering in its wake.
I want more than anything for her to wake up, but I know that if... that when she does -that's when the real healing will begin.
That's when Layla will have to overcome the new trauma endured. The trauma from the stalking, the manipulation, the choking, the gunshot wound, the almost dying twice... but more than all those things -she will have to come to peace with the fact that she murdered Louis.
If she hadn't then neither of us would've survived, that much is clear. The unhinged look in Louis' eyes and words was evidence enough of that face. She had no other choice, but a life was still lost at her hands. And that... that out of everything that happened will change her the most.
She can overcome a coma, she can survive almost dying, she can stay strong through all her abuse, but this...
I don't know if she can recover from this.
"You can talk to her, you know?"
The voice is familiar, but one I haven't heard in a long time. One that pulls me from my brooding and brushing of Layla's hair to face someone I haven't seen or thought of in quite a while.
"Jamie?"
I pull the brush from Layla's hair, my eyes meeting my ex-girlfriends as the first smile I've had in days tries to fight its way onto my face.
Her grin is small, sympathetic, but sad. Ultimately sad, "Hey, Monkey... How are you holding up?"
She steps into the room, chart in hand, and we both let out a breathy chuckle at the hated nickname.
It somehow feels wrong to have any laughter in me while Layla is like this. To feel anything but sad, to do anything but be here for her. But, I know Layla would hate me for thinking that way, I know she would find hope in my laughter.
And it's a relief to see someone so removed from everything that has happened -to be reminded that life is still happening outside these four walls. Even if it doesn't feel like it.
Even if it feels like the world stopped turning the instant that Layla's eyes fell shut and is waiting with bated breath for them to open again so it can return to its rotation.
I sigh, a faux smile plastered on my face, "I'm ecstatic, really."
She frowns at my sarcasm, but stays silent as she saddles up to the other side of the bed. She checks Layla's vitals quickly, sunflower eyes somber as she assesses her unwavering condition.
"How is she?" I still ask, even though I am fully aware of the answer.
"Pretty much the same," Jamie sighs before grabbing the stethoscope around her neck and gently placing the end to Layla's chest, "Heartbeat is still going strong, though. That's always a good sign."
I nod, though the words bring me little comfort. Every doctor that has passed through the door has essentially said the same thing with little vindication and no promise for better.
They all say that Layla is a fighter -that she's strong, that her vitals look good... but, despite how strong she is and how good her vitals are she still remains comatose.
"Do you... Do you think she'll wake up?"
I had avoided asking the other hospital staff this question in fear of their answer, but I know Jamie. I can trust her to give it to me straight.
Her hand pauses over the chart, teeth digging into her bottom lip as she slowly meets my nervous gaze.
Her own focuses on the redhead between us and when she speaks her voice is confident and full of a positivity that sparks the match of hope within me.
"I hope so, Harry... she has suffered an unbelievable amount of trauma, but her vitals are great and she is healing quickly... we've done everything we can medically speaking, so the rest is really up to her. I hope she finds the strength to wake up soon. I really do."
The tears are so sudden and overpowering that I don't even notice them spilling down my cheeks until Jamie's jaw drops in shock and she is grabbing my hand over Layla's stiff one.
"You did everything you could, Harry. You really did. Layla is so lucky to have you and you are so lucky to have her... What she needs now is your support to lean on. Try talking to her, Harry. A lot of patients in comas claim to have heard their loved ones speaking to them... Maybe your voice will give her the strength she needs."
This gives me pause and I fretfully wipe away my tears, leveling Jamie with a doubtful, but thankful, stare.
I don't want people to think I'm a nut for talking to someone who obviously can't respond or may not even hear, but at this point I am willing to try anything, to do anything, to bring Layla back.
"Do you really think she can hear me?"
She shrugs lightly, that hopeful smile back on her lips, "It's worth a try isn't it?"
So, when Jamie leaves after changing the bandages covering Layla's back and abdomen I do just that.
I talk to her all throughout the night. I talk about my mum and her chemo, Gemma and her boy troubles, Eliza and Niall and all their wedding plans. I talk about current events and football stats. I talk about us, and the us I hope we get to be one day.
I talk until the sun comes up, I talk until it begins to hurt.
And even then, I still don't stop.
Saturday:
In my dreams Layla is smiling again.
She is alive. We are happy.
I hate waking.
Sunday:
Ten days after Layla is put into a deep sleep her temperature rises to 39 degrees.
The skin surrounding the stitches on her abdomen grows swollen and a vicious red -a dark yellow and bubbly liquid spilling out at the seams.
A common infection that can occur after surgery, is what Jamie tells us before the doctor interrupts her –a pompous man I truly don't care for, but his credentials can't be argued.
Usually, he claims, these infections can be treated with antibiotics, but they're afraid the infection has become too intense and fear that it may have spread.
They want to put Layla back under the knife in order to clean the wound.
"Another surgery?" Eliza scoffs, cheeks flushed, and gaze indignant as she faces off with the surgeon wanting to take Layla away, "She was just in a six hour operation that put her into a coma and now you want to cut her up again?!"
Niall puts a hand on Eliza's shoulder to calm her, but I haven't seen her this mad since Niall forgot their second year anniversary. She's like a bulldog guarding her owner -fiercely loyal and ready to attack at any threat of danger.
I let her do all the threatening, my energy drained and hope fleeting.
The surgeon raises his palms in defense, but his jaw sets in annoyance and I can tell that he deals with angry loved ones quite frequently, "If we don't clean the wound the infection can travel to her heart and she will die. Do you want that?"
This grabs my attention and I shoot up from my seat, glaring at Eliza to keep her mouth shut, through her chocolate skin has grown incredibly pale at this reality and she shrinks back into herself.
"Please, do all you can to save her," I plead, leaning down to place one lingering kiss onto Layla's cheek as they work at taking off all of the unneeded wires and put the brakes off the wheels of the bed.
I don't want to let her go, I don't want this to be the last time I ever see her or touch her, but I can't let that way of thinking stop the doctors from doing their jobs. I need to trust that they will save her, that I will see Layla again.
That maybe this surgery will shake her out of the coma... Or just further prolong it.
We watch in trepidation as they usher Layla from the room, the only evidence she was ever here lying in the skid marks made from the bed wheels as they took her away.
Jamie stops briefly before shutting the door, shooting all of us a confident grin, "Don't worry, I'll make she we bring her back to you safe and sound."
I nod gratefully as the door shuts with a soft click and we are left in silence.
That should be you, Harry.
"God," Eliza chokes, burying her face in her hands and shrugging off Niall's comforting arm around her shoulders, "I can't believe this is happening to her... All because I couldn't keep track of my fucking phone. What-"
I cut her off quickly, that kind of thinking a dangerous spiral I won't let her slip into, "Don't you start with that shit, Eliza... You didn't see him... You didn't see that disturbed determined look in his eyes... He would've lured Layla into his trap one way or another there was nothing you could have done about it. I-I couldn't even-"
"Oh, fucking quit with the pity party."
Eliza and I both snap our pitiful gazes towards Niall, whose cheeks are tinged a bright red and whose usually friendly eyes flash in annoyance.
He has been strangely quiet since he followed behind the ambulance to the hospital. He had asked me what happened and tried to calm me down while the nurse stitched me up, and then he gave his statement to the police on how he got my location just ten minutes after I tried to send it.
But, after that... Niall has really barely spoken. The events that transpired affecting him more than I ever thought they would.
"None of us are to blame for this –that fucking psycho is responsible for everything. Eliza blaming herself for losing her phone is just as logical as my blaming myself for not eating breakfast that morning. It doesn't make sense and it's not helpful.
Right now this isn't about you or what you could have done differently to stop events that were out of your control. This is about Layla and being here for her until she wakes up and after. Stop making it about you and focus on her."
Eliza reels back from Niall's words as if he had slapped her, but the clarity finally dawning in her eyes makes it clear that she realizes the truth in his words.
A reality, myself, have been avoiding.
It should have been you, Harry. The bullet was meant for you, but you were too weak. You-
I shake the thoughts from my head and chant Niall's words instead. I can't let the guilt cloud my judgement, I can't let them shake my resolve. It doesn't matter if I was supposed to be shot, the reality is that Layla was because she sacrificed herself for me.
And now, I have to repay her for that selflessness.
A choking sound comes from Niall's throat and when my gaze focuses on him I am shocked to find that his eyes shine with unshed tears and his jaw is clenched in rage. He swivels around abruptly, foot coming out to kick the wall with a ferocious anger, the bang making me heart skip a beat.
Eliza jumps in shock, but doesn't reach out to him.
"If Layla hadn't fucking killed that asshole then I would've skinned him alive."
His voice is thick, the words catching in his throat, and both Eliza and I look away -knowing that Niall hates being vulnerable in front of others, knowing he wouldn't want us to see him get emotional.
"Trust me, Niall. He got what he deserved. It's just too bad Layla had to be the one to do it."
He doesn't answer, though the sniffle that follows my words makes it obvious he heard me.
Oddly, a warmth I haven't felt since long before the bullet pierced Layla's skin washes through me while observing my two closest friends during a strenuous time.
Their unbridled emotion towards the woman I love makes my heart stir –their devotion and their love so genuine it almost makes me smile. Almost.
When Layla wakes up -and she will wake up- we will be here to greet her.
Her family.
Eliza breaks the tension in the room, cheeks wet, and gaze apprehensive, "I... I know that neither of you are really religious, but... will you pray with me? Pray for Layla?"
I don't even think twice, and it seems, neither does Niall.
We both shuffle towards her -Niall's eyes focused towards the ground so we don't see the redness in them. Eliza clasps my right hand and I clasp Niall's with my left, the action odd and unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.
And there we stand in a circle on the spot where Layla just lay in her bed in a ... dead... sleep. We squeeze our eyes shut and bow our heads and pour all of our faith into some unforeseen force.
And we pray.
For the first time in my life I plead to a God I have never believed in. I chant Layla's name in a prayer -my teeth digging into the vowels, my tongue caressing the syllables.
I savor the sound, I swallow it.
Beads of sweat fall from my hairline from the force of my devotion, my hands cramp from gripping the others who are chanting prayers of their own, and although I get no sign from God that he hears me –I continue praying into the night.
I pray because if anyone deserves salvation it's Layla.
Monday:
I don't know if it was the prayer or Layla's resilience, but she makes it out of the surgery with no complications -her scar healing nicely and the infection gone almost entirely.
But, her eyes still remain closed.
I don't move from her side, a valiant protector and loyal friend, though her condition is stable and there is no need for me to stay with her. I've already wasted so much time away, overwhelmed by what had happened, what I couldn't stop. I won't do that again.
Layla deserves better.
Eliza and Niall visit as much as they can between shifts at work, Betsy even dropped by this morning to leave flowers and check on her favorite resident (me, of course, not Layla), and my mum has come by a few times after her chemo sessions.
But, the chair beside Layla's bed is indented by the grooves of my bum, the sheet covering her body encrusted with just a few dribbles of drool from the few times I manage to nod off.
I don't like sleeping, I avoid it if I can.
Every now and then my subconscious will fill with memories of Layla and me, but most of the time... most of the time, my mind plays out horrific scenes in which I arrive too late at that abandoned house or I don't make it at all and Layla just... disappears... Louis stealing her away somewhere I won't ever find her.
Vanishes, just like that.
It's those dreams I fill myself up with caffeine to avoid.
A nurse comes in -not Jamie this time- and glances at me briefly with a fond smile. He's a familiar face to me now -tanned skin just barely wrinkled around his kind eyes, and an impressive beard we discussed when we first met.
He's carrying a small bucket that sloshes with each step, a pair of latex gloves, and a pack of sponges and soap.
My stomach churns.
"Hey, man," He doesn't ask me how I am because that's just not a question you ask the boyfriend of a coma patient, "It's time for Layla's sponge bath."
I shift uncomfortably in my seat, at war with myself. I like the guy well enough and I know it's his job, but I also know that Layla wouldn't want herself exposed to anyone -male or female, nurse or not.
She was shy like that, dignified like that.
Manny notices my discomfort and glances behind him towards the door before turning back to me with furrowed brows, "I'm not supposed to do this, but, I like you and I like her even though she's been asleep the whole time I've known her, so..." He trails off again, hesitating slightly, before setting down the supplies on the table beside Layla's head, "I'm just going to leave this here while I check on some other patients... If you were to bathe her yourself -which you aren't supposed to- be sure you avoid any direct contact between her sutures and the soap."
I nod my head perceptibly, flashing him a grateful grin as he turns on his heel with a wink, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.
I suck in a nervous breath, my hands oddly shaking as I pull back the sheet and lift her gown ever so gently.
I've undressed Layla many times, my hands have touched her body on numerous occasions, and I have seen her naked so often that I could paint her from memory.
And I have.
But, there is nothing sensual in this act, nothing lustful about it.
No, it's almost... sad. The sponge hovering over her body like an eraser -a feeble attempt to clean away any evidence of hurt on Layla's skin, but never quite succeeding.
My strokes are meticulous and gentile, the damp sponge curving along her hip and avoiding her fresh stitches, washing the valley between her breasts and the cold flesh of her arms. I work my way down her landscape with a care I have not known before now.
My hands are gentle as I left her back from the bed ever so slightly to clean around the stitches there –barely glancing at the scar left by the jagged shard of glass. The wound is so long and violent that looking at it for too long makes my head spin and my throat dry. But, I clean around that too, willing it to go away, though I know she will have the scar for the rest of her life.
Every inch of her body meets the spongy material -washed with soap and rinsed with water.
But, when I am done the fading bruises are still there and no matter how hard I scrub, I swear I can still see the blood splattered on her face and dripping down her legs.
So much blood.
That should have been you, Harry.
I try to squeeze out these images as I clean her face now, partly obstructed by the neck brace and the new breathing tube they had put in that wraps around her nose rather than down her throat. This one is a lot less frightening.
But, the soap does nothing but clean her body, the water doesn't bring her to salvation. The prayers didn't work.
I cover her body when I'm done and sit back in the chair, watching as the sun sets on her face.
And I cry.
Wednesday:
"Harry, Harry! Please, Harry! Help me, please!"
The scream is gargled and so full of sheer terror that a cold sweat begins at my hairline and travels down my spine.
Layla.
I whirl around frantically in search for that voice, but it's bouncing off the walls, echoing all around me from every direction. Everything is a faded black with no sense of right or left or up or down. I am blind in this darkness, the shouts for help my only sense of being.
"Layla," I scream, the ominous feeling rising in my belly like a balloon about to burst, "Layla, where are you?"
Something isn't right here, I can feel it. Something very, very bad is about to happen.
She only continues to screech, voice hoarse and coaxed in fear as I fumble around in the dark.
Helpless, completely helpless.
There is a pinching pain in my arm that I don't understand and I reach to grip my bicep, my fingers coming away coated with something thick and runny.
I don't need to see to know that it's blood.
"Harry, help me!"
I shout her name once again, forgetting my injured arm altogether –focused on finding away out of the dark. There is no answer, instead, a light shines behind me as if someone just flipped on a switch or opened a door.
I run towards it desperately as Layla's screams grow less frequent and less passioned and I have a sinking feeling it's not because she doesn't need my help anymore.
The light only seems to grow farther away no matter how fast I run and it is so blinding that I shut my eyes against it, my head splitting with a headache so vicious it's like I cracked my skull against a cement wall.
My feet grow sluggish from the pain, but I tread on towards Layla's voice no matter how faint it grows.
By the time I reach the light I am crawling on my knees and Layla has long since stopped calling out for help.
It takes my eyes too long to adjust to the blinding white light and just when I begin to panic the brightness fades into a familiar hospital room where Layla lays battered and bruised and hooked up to machines.
Relief doesn't even get a chance to fill me before dread takes its place. The breathing tube isn't making the Darth Vader sound anymore. The machine that is supposed to beep steadily with her pulse is just sounding off one final long note.
Eliza, Niall, Mum, Gemma, Betsy all stand around her bed covered in black and crying softly into tissues.
"No... No! Oh my god, no!"
I shout incoherently, my ears ringing as I sway to my feet and push through the throng of my loved ones. My throat already caving in, the crushing weight of this grief already making it difficult for me to breathe –for me to live.
I'm too late.
It's Layla all right, but it's not Layla at all. It is a skull with strands of red hair clinging to whatever flesh is still stuck to the bone. Shrunken eyes focus on me with a blank horror, mouth agape in what looks like a scream.
I was too late.
It should have been me.
I wake with a jolt, cheeks flushed and wet with cold tears, hands clammy as they tighten their hold on Layla's.
My lungs struggle to find their oxygen again –that weight from the dream still clinging onto me. That guilt and grief following me out of sleep like a shadow I can't escape. I try to swallow back down my sobs, but every time I blink –that skull... Layla's skull is looking back at me.
It takes me a long time to recover. A long time of deep breaths and ferocious pinches and long episodes of staring at Layla's face to make sure all her skin is there, all her hair is there.
All the life is still in her cheeks.
And then, when the images fade and my heart calms its erratic dance, my head falls onto the mattress and I soak it with my desperate sobs.
The tears so heavy an unending I'm afraid I may drown.
"Please wake up, Layla. I-I can't do this without you... you can't just leave. You've barely just begun living..."
No response.
My chest tightens angrily and my cries grow more desperate, "This isn't fair, Layla. You can't leave me behind I have barely begun to know you. I-I need you here, I don't want to go on without you by my side... You have to wake up... You have to live and do all of the things you never got to do and be with me and be happy and live dammit. Please wake up, please-"
A twitch.
A spasm so imperceptible I may never have noticed had my hand been clasped around her's and felt that one pointer finger just barely move. A flick of a finger once frozen in time.
My plea dies on my tongue as I let go of that hand and strain to keep my eyes from blinking so I can be sure of the next one. So, I know that it wasn't just my imagination or my will that conjured up that twitch.
But, there is no other twitch.
Minutes pass by in bated breath as I watch that hand for any sign of consciousness, but the next sign of life sounds from Layla's mouth.
A deep groan climbs its way out of Layla's throat and I abandon that hand to stand by her head and watch as her eyelids flutter. They struggle to open, fighting against the great sleep as more of her fingers move by her side.
"Layla," I try to keep my voice quiet, but I can feel the light against my skin again –faint and weak, but there all the same, "Layla, can you hear me?!"
More moaning, a furrowed brow, blinking eyes...
And then my prayers are finally answered-
"Harry?"
___________
I'm sorry if this isn't very good I am so tired... forgive me.
I'm also really conflicted because the story was supposed to end here and then have an epilogue. But, do you think that's too abrupt? I could stretch it out for one more chapter, but with the way the POVs are set up it would have to be three more chapters and then the epilogue and that will be very hard. But, would you want that, would it feel too abrupt to just end this storyline (it will still be explored in the epilogue, though, just not in detail) and then jump forward in the epilogue? So, imma ask you what you think:
Would you like for me to extend the story so you have more detail on Layla's recovery?
Or
Would you be satisfied with just the epilogue as the next and last chapter?
What did you guys think of the chapter? Some of you really wanted Layla to die man lol. I gotta admit that I thought about that too, but I couldn't do her like that. Most of you would also come after me with pitchforks so...
VOTE + COMMENT