Status: Complete
Layla
Layla
Sometimes at night, when our mother was out doing overtime, Layla would come crawling to room, crying and crying and I’d slip her out my bedroom window and we’d sit on the roof together. We’d count the stars and I’d show Layla the Big Dipper and Orion’s belt and any other constellation I could point out. Layla would always count very slowly and deliberatly. Stretching out the numbers and pointing carefully at each and every one of the stars. But once she got to one hundred, she’d furrow her little eyebrows and stick out her bottom lips in frustrastion, because she didn’t know what was after one hundred. Afterwards, I’d have to say the numbers for her and she’d repeat them carefully, like she was trying really hard to cram the numbers into her memory, even though she always forgot them again.
Sooner or later, Layla’s eyelids would start to grow heavy and droop gently over her dark eyes, but she’d still mumble the numbers I said for her until the numbers began to sound like some mystical foreign words. I’d sit up and drag her into my arms, rocking her gently and blowing lightly on her face. When she had fallen asleep, we’d go back in the house and I’d lay her down on my bed. If I put her back in her own room, she’d wake up in the middle of the night and start sobbing her poor heart out.
Layla hated to be alone. She always wanted to be around other people and she’d grow extremely anxious when she was left by herself. Layla loved everybody and everybody loved her. She was young and bright and the most gorgeous toddler ever. Being touched was comforting to her. It made her feel safe and secure, but it wasn’t always that way. Because sometimes, she would get touched too much.
Layla adored our Uncle Felix. Everytime he came over to visit us he would bring her little gifts, like a pretty ribbon for her lucious black hair or a sweet treat for her to munch on. And she’d climb on his lap and tell him about her day and sometimes even whisper in his ear secrets that she didn’t want to tell anyone else. She loved him. And I’m sure Uncle Felix loved her, too. But then I started to notice some weird things. Like the way Uncle Felix would always be touching her and always wanting her to kiss him. Or the way he looked at her, like she wasn’t just an oblivious little girl, but a lustful thing that had something he wanted. Sometimes, Uncle Felix would say he wanted to look at something that was in another room, and he’d always call Layla to come with him and show him. And I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the way it seemed like he was hiding something everytime I asked him what they looked at in the room. I didn’t like the way his hands would start itching whenever I decided to follow the two of them into the room. It was downright unnerving.
Then one day, Uncle Felix came over with a suitcase in both hands and announced that he would be staying at our house for a few days because his apartment had been evicted from him. And I watched as he picked Layla up and twirled her in the air. My mother turned around and returned to the kitchen, but I kept watching. I watched as he sat down on the couch and Layla giggled something into his ears. And I watched his hands. Watched as they began to rub Layla’s ankle gently. Watched as they began to rub Layla’s knee gently. Watched as they began to rub Layla’s thigh gently. And I grabber her. “Layla has to take a bath,” I told him. He smiled and nodded, then he grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. I stared at him. I glared at him, but he never took notice, so I left with Layla firmly in my arms, whining about how much she wanted to talk to Uncle Felix.
One night, when my mother was out working late again, Layla never came up to my room. I got worried and rolled around and around in my bed until I couldn’t take it anymore. Uncle Felix’s room was right down the hallway. When I crept outside of my own room, I noticed that the door of his was slightly ajar. I didn’t even want to think about where he was. Layla’s room was closed shut, but I wanted to check on her anyways, so I tried to turn the knob, but it was locked. Layla didn’t even know how to lock her door, yet. I started to panic and pulled on the doorknob until the whole house was echoing with the sound of the closed door banging on its frame. By now, Layla would have started crying because the noise would have terrified her, but I couldn’t hear anything. Just my own rapid breathing and my heart sinking into my ribcage with each painful beat. I ran to my room and grabbed the spare key to Layla’s room, in case she ever did lock herself in accidentally. I didn’t even fumble like I thought I would when I unlocked the door. When I opened it, little Layla was lying on her bed, eyes closed tightly and body stripped bare. She was crying as hard as she could with the duct tape strapped over her mouth. She hadn’t taken it off herself, because everytime she pulled, it hurt too much for her. As soon as I pulled it off for her, all I could hear was her pitiful sobbing. She climbed into my arms and I didn’t even try to stop her from crying anymore, because I wailed along loudly with her, too.
That’s when I noticed the small spot of blood on her sheets and the window all the way open. I called our mom and she came over immediately. She didn’t believe it at first, of course. She didn’t believe that her precious brother could have done that. She was in complete denial and I was so angry at her. Angry that all the evidence was pointing towards Felix and she still didn’t want to accept what had happened to her baby.
Felix hasn’t shown up once since that night. And we never turned him into the police, no matter how much I urged and screamed. The person we call Mom said he was family, and family doesn’t do that to family. But is it okay for familiy to rape family, then? I keep Layla at my side constantly now, and she doesn’t mind. She loves it. But I’m always worried for her. Worried that someone would take my baby away from me. Worried that she’d be hurt again. I should have done something. I had known, and I didn’t say anything until it was too late.
Sooner or later, Layla’s eyelids would start to grow heavy and droop gently over her dark eyes, but she’d still mumble the numbers I said for her until the numbers began to sound like some mystical foreign words. I’d sit up and drag her into my arms, rocking her gently and blowing lightly on her face. When she had fallen asleep, we’d go back in the house and I’d lay her down on my bed. If I put her back in her own room, she’d wake up in the middle of the night and start sobbing her poor heart out.
Layla hated to be alone. She always wanted to be around other people and she’d grow extremely anxious when she was left by herself. Layla loved everybody and everybody loved her. She was young and bright and the most gorgeous toddler ever. Being touched was comforting to her. It made her feel safe and secure, but it wasn’t always that way. Because sometimes, she would get touched too much.
Layla adored our Uncle Felix. Everytime he came over to visit us he would bring her little gifts, like a pretty ribbon for her lucious black hair or a sweet treat for her to munch on. And she’d climb on his lap and tell him about her day and sometimes even whisper in his ear secrets that she didn’t want to tell anyone else. She loved him. And I’m sure Uncle Felix loved her, too. But then I started to notice some weird things. Like the way Uncle Felix would always be touching her and always wanting her to kiss him. Or the way he looked at her, like she wasn’t just an oblivious little girl, but a lustful thing that had something he wanted. Sometimes, Uncle Felix would say he wanted to look at something that was in another room, and he’d always call Layla to come with him and show him. And I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the way it seemed like he was hiding something everytime I asked him what they looked at in the room. I didn’t like the way his hands would start itching whenever I decided to follow the two of them into the room. It was downright unnerving.
Then one day, Uncle Felix came over with a suitcase in both hands and announced that he would be staying at our house for a few days because his apartment had been evicted from him. And I watched as he picked Layla up and twirled her in the air. My mother turned around and returned to the kitchen, but I kept watching. I watched as he sat down on the couch and Layla giggled something into his ears. And I watched his hands. Watched as they began to rub Layla’s ankle gently. Watched as they began to rub Layla’s knee gently. Watched as they began to rub Layla’s thigh gently. And I grabber her. “Layla has to take a bath,” I told him. He smiled and nodded, then he grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. I stared at him. I glared at him, but he never took notice, so I left with Layla firmly in my arms, whining about how much she wanted to talk to Uncle Felix.
One night, when my mother was out working late again, Layla never came up to my room. I got worried and rolled around and around in my bed until I couldn’t take it anymore. Uncle Felix’s room was right down the hallway. When I crept outside of my own room, I noticed that the door of his was slightly ajar. I didn’t even want to think about where he was. Layla’s room was closed shut, but I wanted to check on her anyways, so I tried to turn the knob, but it was locked. Layla didn’t even know how to lock her door, yet. I started to panic and pulled on the doorknob until the whole house was echoing with the sound of the closed door banging on its frame. By now, Layla would have started crying because the noise would have terrified her, but I couldn’t hear anything. Just my own rapid breathing and my heart sinking into my ribcage with each painful beat. I ran to my room and grabbed the spare key to Layla’s room, in case she ever did lock herself in accidentally. I didn’t even fumble like I thought I would when I unlocked the door. When I opened it, little Layla was lying on her bed, eyes closed tightly and body stripped bare. She was crying as hard as she could with the duct tape strapped over her mouth. She hadn’t taken it off herself, because everytime she pulled, it hurt too much for her. As soon as I pulled it off for her, all I could hear was her pitiful sobbing. She climbed into my arms and I didn’t even try to stop her from crying anymore, because I wailed along loudly with her, too.
That’s when I noticed the small spot of blood on her sheets and the window all the way open. I called our mom and she came over immediately. She didn’t believe it at first, of course. She didn’t believe that her precious brother could have done that. She was in complete denial and I was so angry at her. Angry that all the evidence was pointing towards Felix and she still didn’t want to accept what had happened to her baby.
Felix hasn’t shown up once since that night. And we never turned him into the police, no matter how much I urged and screamed. The person we call Mom said he was family, and family doesn’t do that to family. But is it okay for familiy to rape family, then? I keep Layla at my side constantly now, and she doesn’t mind. She loves it. But I’m always worried for her. Worried that someone would take my baby away from me. Worried that she’d be hurt again. I should have done something. I had known, and I didn’t say anything until it was too late.
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