Perfect
Two: I Apologise
Tina
“Sorry about this,” I sigh, shaking my head. There are five men sat in front of me. Their names are Gerard, Frank, Mikey, Bob and Ray. I know them as being in a band called My Chemical Romance. They’re sat in this restaurant tonight to meet a young model and good friend of mine, Layla Goss. They want her to be in one of their music videos; they’ve never seen a picture of her before; and she hasn’t turned up.
She was meant to be there at half five. It’s six o’clock and she still hasn’t turned up. I’ve left twelve messages on her answer phone, none have been replied to.
“I honestly don’t know where she is. Layla’s usually very good with timekeeping,” I continue. The five men try for smiles but I can see they’re bored now.
“Do you think she’ll be here soon?” Gerard asks.
“I hope so.” I look towards the entrance to the restaurant, willing Layla to walk in, a smile on her face and her head full of excuses. But she doesn’t come.
“I’m worried now,” I suddenly burst out. The men all look at me.
I swallow. “Layla... Layla would never miss a meeting like this,” I say quietly. “Never. I’m thinking I should go back to her house and see if she’s there.” I stand up and pick up my bag and coat. “You don’t have to wait here. I’m truly sorry for this.”
I begin to walk away when I feel a hand on my shoulder. “We’ll come with you.” It’s Gerard.
I don’t object. I just leave the restaurant. “Follow my car if you can,” I instruct them, then give them her address.
I climb into my car, start it up as quick as I can, turn off the radio and begin to leave the restaurant car park. Her house isn’t far away – that’s why I specifically chose that restaurant.
Her house is beautiful. It has two floors and is large, made out of grey stones, with a tall tower where I know she spends a lot of her time. I’ve never been in it – she’s very secretive of that tower. The way she has decorated her house is beautiful as well.
But the lights aren’t on. All the curtains are open except the ones of her bedroom window.
Something isn’t right here.
I root in my bag for the spare key she gave me. I find it and run to the front door.
The guys are right behind me. “What’s wrong?” the one called Ray asks.
“Layla always has her curtains shut by now,” I gabble, stuffing the key into the lock.
“But it’s still light.”
“It doesn’t matter. Layla shuts her curtains at about five o’clock, every day,” I try to press it into their minds. “Every day.”
I turn the lock and swing the door inwards. At the bottom of the stairs sits her cat Morphus. The other one, Jessica, is meowing upstairs.
My heart begins to thump and I take off upstairs. Her bedroom door is shut and I slam into it, swinging it open. Her bedroom is pitch black and it smells funny. I recognise the smell and I feel sick, instantly. I fumble for the light switch.
Layla lies on the bed, spread-eagled. There is blood everywhere – on her nightdress, the bed sheets. A razor lies in her hand, her wrists are slashed and bleeding. Her eyes are closed and she is breathing – but only just. It’s very slight, small, occasional sharp breaths.
“Layla! NO!” I fling myself at her, checking for a pulse although I can see her breathing. I can’t find one.
“Someone call an ambulance!” I shriek. “SOMEONE CALL AN AMBULANCE!”
I hear the guys gasp; someone back out of the room; and the furious jabbing of fingers to a phone’s keypad. I feel tears running down my face and I want so scream and pull at my hair.
I should have known.
I’ve been watching Layla slowly slip away for the best few months.
I should have known.
“Sorry about this,” I sigh, shaking my head. There are five men sat in front of me. Their names are Gerard, Frank, Mikey, Bob and Ray. I know them as being in a band called My Chemical Romance. They’re sat in this restaurant tonight to meet a young model and good friend of mine, Layla Goss. They want her to be in one of their music videos; they’ve never seen a picture of her before; and she hasn’t turned up.
She was meant to be there at half five. It’s six o’clock and she still hasn’t turned up. I’ve left twelve messages on her answer phone, none have been replied to.
“I honestly don’t know where she is. Layla’s usually very good with timekeeping,” I continue. The five men try for smiles but I can see they’re bored now.
“Do you think she’ll be here soon?” Gerard asks.
“I hope so.” I look towards the entrance to the restaurant, willing Layla to walk in, a smile on her face and her head full of excuses. But she doesn’t come.
“I’m worried now,” I suddenly burst out. The men all look at me.
I swallow. “Layla... Layla would never miss a meeting like this,” I say quietly. “Never. I’m thinking I should go back to her house and see if she’s there.” I stand up and pick up my bag and coat. “You don’t have to wait here. I’m truly sorry for this.”
I begin to walk away when I feel a hand on my shoulder. “We’ll come with you.” It’s Gerard.
I don’t object. I just leave the restaurant. “Follow my car if you can,” I instruct them, then give them her address.
I climb into my car, start it up as quick as I can, turn off the radio and begin to leave the restaurant car park. Her house isn’t far away – that’s why I specifically chose that restaurant.
Her house is beautiful. It has two floors and is large, made out of grey stones, with a tall tower where I know she spends a lot of her time. I’ve never been in it – she’s very secretive of that tower. The way she has decorated her house is beautiful as well.
But the lights aren’t on. All the curtains are open except the ones of her bedroom window.
Something isn’t right here.
I root in my bag for the spare key she gave me. I find it and run to the front door.
The guys are right behind me. “What’s wrong?” the one called Ray asks.
“Layla always has her curtains shut by now,” I gabble, stuffing the key into the lock.
“But it’s still light.”
“It doesn’t matter. Layla shuts her curtains at about five o’clock, every day,” I try to press it into their minds. “Every day.”
I turn the lock and swing the door inwards. At the bottom of the stairs sits her cat Morphus. The other one, Jessica, is meowing upstairs.
My heart begins to thump and I take off upstairs. Her bedroom door is shut and I slam into it, swinging it open. Her bedroom is pitch black and it smells funny. I recognise the smell and I feel sick, instantly. I fumble for the light switch.
Layla lies on the bed, spread-eagled. There is blood everywhere – on her nightdress, the bed sheets. A razor lies in her hand, her wrists are slashed and bleeding. Her eyes are closed and she is breathing – but only just. It’s very slight, small, occasional sharp breaths.
“Layla! NO!” I fling myself at her, checking for a pulse although I can see her breathing. I can’t find one.
“Someone call an ambulance!” I shriek. “SOMEONE CALL AN AMBULANCE!”
I hear the guys gasp; someone back out of the room; and the furious jabbing of fingers to a phone’s keypad. I feel tears running down my face and I want so scream and pull at my hair.
I should have known.
I’ve been watching Layla slowly slip away for the best few months.
I should have known.