When Will The Tide Turn
Sir Are You Listening?
'Not for nothing, the bruise colored shadows under my eyes are the result of staying up all night trying to hold back the tears I have wanted to cry,' Layla wrote in her charcoal covered binder late into the night. 'I say this not for nothing, but for something. A very important something.' Layla was tired so very tired, but she wouldn't dare go to sleep. Sleep meant reliving every picked through problem.
That day when she had come home her mother greeted her with the classic cold-shoulder. Then as the evening wore on Mrs. Jeannette tried to play it off as if nothing was wrong between herself and her outcasted daughter. So Layla was forced to smile, nod, and occasionally fake a giggle to something Layla neither understood nor cared about even under normal circumstances.
Although because this kind of thing happened so often it was beginning to be considered normal. Lastly, leave is to Mrs. Jeannette to end of the night with having a mother to daughter talk about how much Layla's mother actually loved her and only wished to help. Somewhere in the middle of the talk there was a death threat that involved Mrs. Jeannette using a machete; and ended with agreeing to disagree, hate each other, and move out as soon as possible (or runaway, which ever came first).
So this is where Layla was left, listening to loud distracting music, pretending she was in Adrian's protective arms, snapping her pain dispensing rubber-band, and desperately trying to stay awake. For a second Layla forgot that Adrian was with her and she found herself reaching for a hand in the darkness, that was not there. But Layla would disagree, she saw someone crawling towards her, gathering her in his arms, laying her down comfortable in her bed, and rocking her to sleep.
Images flashes through Layla's mind. First she saw the fight from that morning. "I'm sorry," Layla quietly apologized for something that was not her fault. "Yeah well don't waste your breath with you filthy lie sorriness. I am sick of you and your FUCKING IDIOCY!" The scene changed,and a new memory played. Layla's father seeing getting up out of her bed, he was leaving her room. "Shh, don't make a sound," he said in a demanding yet comforting voice. Horrified to notice the bulge in between his hipbones and the fact that she wasn't wearing any pants. Again the dream took on a new course, but her father was the subject of the remembrance. He was carrying her into his room, he had just come home from work. His hand disturbingly placed up among the area connecting the legs, underneath her dress. Switch again, Layla found herself back in a church from a couple of months ago. She watched her uncles carry in the coffin containing her dead bastard of a grandfather. In the middle of the sermon's speech Layla began to laugh hysterically finally hit by the full impact that Mr. Jeannette had passed.
She kicked and thrashed, screamed at the top of her lungs. "Please, please stop," she begged in her mind. "Let me awaken from this nightmare." Then she woke up, drenched in sweat. Her throat itched, her damp eyes were on fire, every bone ached deep to the core. She thought the screaming had finally woken her up, or was it just time for her to open her eyes and come out of the dream state in the middle of the night? It didn't matter. She had still relived the fight with her mother ad several other things she did not wish to remember.
Layla got out of bed and found her exacto knife cleverly hidden in her old glasses case. As if it were completely routine (not that it wasn't), Layla slit down her arm along the path of her arm's main vein. In amazement she watched as she let the thin cold blood drip down to her elbow. It eased her pain, a trade physical for emotional. A swap she would except any day.
That day when she had come home her mother greeted her with the classic cold-shoulder. Then as the evening wore on Mrs. Jeannette tried to play it off as if nothing was wrong between herself and her outcasted daughter. So Layla was forced to smile, nod, and occasionally fake a giggle to something Layla neither understood nor cared about even under normal circumstances.
Although because this kind of thing happened so often it was beginning to be considered normal. Lastly, leave is to Mrs. Jeannette to end of the night with having a mother to daughter talk about how much Layla's mother actually loved her and only wished to help. Somewhere in the middle of the talk there was a death threat that involved Mrs. Jeannette using a machete; and ended with agreeing to disagree, hate each other, and move out as soon as possible (or runaway, which ever came first).
So this is where Layla was left, listening to loud distracting music, pretending she was in Adrian's protective arms, snapping her pain dispensing rubber-band, and desperately trying to stay awake. For a second Layla forgot that Adrian was with her and she found herself reaching for a hand in the darkness, that was not there. But Layla would disagree, she saw someone crawling towards her, gathering her in his arms, laying her down comfortable in her bed, and rocking her to sleep.
Images flashes through Layla's mind. First she saw the fight from that morning. "I'm sorry," Layla quietly apologized for something that was not her fault. "Yeah well don't waste your breath with you filthy lie sorriness. I am sick of you and your FUCKING IDIOCY!" The scene changed,and a new memory played. Layla's father seeing getting up out of her bed, he was leaving her room. "Shh, don't make a sound," he said in a demanding yet comforting voice. Horrified to notice the bulge in between his hipbones and the fact that she wasn't wearing any pants. Again the dream took on a new course, but her father was the subject of the remembrance. He was carrying her into his room, he had just come home from work. His hand disturbingly placed up among the area connecting the legs, underneath her dress. Switch again, Layla found herself back in a church from a couple of months ago. She watched her uncles carry in the coffin containing her dead bastard of a grandfather. In the middle of the sermon's speech Layla began to laugh hysterically finally hit by the full impact that Mr. Jeannette had passed.
She kicked and thrashed, screamed at the top of her lungs. "Please, please stop," she begged in her mind. "Let me awaken from this nightmare." Then she woke up, drenched in sweat. Her throat itched, her damp eyes were on fire, every bone ached deep to the core. She thought the screaming had finally woken her up, or was it just time for her to open her eyes and come out of the dream state in the middle of the night? It didn't matter. She had still relived the fight with her mother ad several other things she did not wish to remember.
Layla got out of bed and found her exacto knife cleverly hidden in her old glasses case. As if it were completely routine (not that it wasn't), Layla slit down her arm along the path of her arm's main vein. In amazement she watched as she let the thin cold blood drip down to her elbow. It eased her pain, a trade physical for emotional. A swap she would except any day.