The Offer

I was one reckless thing when I was younger. In more than a few occasions in my life, I really felt that my mom, who was already having trouble raising my younger sister, Elena, was worried that she would one day lose me to all my bad decisions. Looking back on it today, I guess she was more than right to worry; I was misguided and always barricaded myself with the worst crowd. I'll admit that even I felt awkward around them at times, but I guess it was my apathetic image that kept them from reading panic, sadness or laughter from my face. I had to harden myself up so that I was compatible with any crowd. In a way, I became socially versatile. The different cliques I hung out with didn't particularly like one another, but since they knew me, they took their cue from that and left each other alone. No matter which fights broke out in school or which person won academic awards, I was always aware of the news because my acquaintances were all over the place, and because of that, my sources became very reliable. My updates about everyone and everything was impeccably correct. It's easier to learn about people that way, easier to predict how they'll act or how they'll turn out in the near future.

One of the easiest futures I was able to foretell was Mila's suicide. She was the girl everyone bullied because she threw up once in the lunchroom, and got it all over her pretty pink dress, which everyone thought was too retro for high school anyway. They all thought she did herself a favor. I never had any real feeling towards her... she was just kind of there. She existed, she was made fun of, and now she's dead. Before that day she threw up, though, she could have just strolled on by, because she was already invisible, but that was probably the better option as far as her high school career was concerned. At least being invisible kept her out of harm's way. But being in the spotlight that afternoon was the price of being seen. All eyes on you and so are the jokes. The chicken patty was probably what did her in. Everyone felt it in their stomach's, too, I guess, but the only difference laid between those who could hold it in and those who couldn't.

I'm sure Mila wasn't the only one who couldn't hold in that nasty lunch food. After she was sent to the nurse's office, vomit was also found in the ladies' room. A month and a half later, deep in the month of November, Mila was announced dead in her home. Her head was stagnant in the toilet bowl in her bathroom, her hair swimming around her, closer to the surface than she was.

Everyone in school became aware of the news almost instantly, but no one had a real reaction to it. They were more caught up with the fact of knowing “that girl” than the actual incident. Mila's name didn't linger for much longer in their mouths, though. She would only be lunchroom gossip for less than a week. I felt bad for her, but my image kept me from showing that. Soon, her name had left my mouth as well as my mind.

And so, in came December and the winds and blizzards along with it.

I'm not a Winter person, so needless to say, I hate the cold. Oh. So. VERY. Much. I feel like I don't look right or quite like myself in a coat. It's not that the coat never looked good on me, I just didn't look good on the coat. Still, I learned to love this one coat. It was very warm and very cozy. On some days, when the wind became unbearable, I would sink my neck so deep into that thick turtle-neck until I started insulating heat again. But I think all that love for the coat grew from the fact that my mom saved up for it. Three years or so. So before that, all my and Elena's coats weren't too thick or warm. So instead we layered up with hoodies and sweaters in our living room, and we would charge at each other to see how well the sweaters would hold up from physical impacts. We'd end up on the floor, giggling and struggling to get up. I smile now as I remember how funny that was.

I didn't know how to love anyone.

If you weren't my mom or Elena, I had no love to spare. My father sure as hell didn't deserve it. Just another abuse case here, I guess. I've learned one thing, though... It's always going to be hard taking a hit, but it's much easier to take each and every single one of them when you're taking the hit for someone else you love.

Elena was much too young-- so curious and loving and only six years old. I couldn't bear to see her raised in our household. I've thought so many times about just calling the authorities and let them take my sister away, but I too, was young and could have been taken along with her. As sad as it was, I couldn't stand the thought of leaving my mom alone, lonely and battered. So I decided that I could take the hit for all of us. Everything was so dark in our house. I don't only mean it metaphorically. My mother had to close the blinds in fear that someone could see that-- well... she was afraid that someone would see. I became numb to the hits. Apathy was a friend on my face.

January came closer and closer. For some reason, I feel like it's always colder than December, but I definitely don't hate December any less. I usually left our house in the morning after the school bus came for Elena, then I'd go off to wait at my own stop.

Dipping my neck into that coat with my fists in my pockets, I would occasionally glance up each time a shadow reached my knees. But I hated looking up. The white snow around me was always so blinding in the sun. Come to think of it... I hated a lot of things when I was younger. Isn't that just so typical of a teenager, though? To hate everything in our paths? Even the sunlight, when that's all darkness really craved for.

A shadow sat on my knee. I glanced up.

He looked tall as I tried my hardest to examine him, but with all that sun behind him, I nearly squinted my eyes shut. Bringing a hand up over my left eye, I left the right one shut and said to him in strict monotone, “Yeah?”

“You come here often,” he said as he finally moved out of my way, allowing more sun in my view. I secretly wished he would have just conveniently waited for the bus in front of me without conversation. I ignored him and sunk back into warmth. He sat next to me with his legs widely apart before him. He brought out a cigarette from his coat pocket and placed it on his lips. He brought out a Zippo lighter from his right pocket and lit it. He nonchalantly side-glanced over to me when he took the first drag. “The quiet type,” he began. “I hear your type of women are different. Ladies in the street. Freaks in bed.” Oh, great, a pervert, I thought to myself. He sat back and rested his elbows back against the bench then ashed his cigarette. I grew uncomfortable with how physically close he was to me, so I moved away. He grinned. “Conservative?”

“Don't talk to me.” I closed my eyes and sighed. It was a tired sigh, and I hoped he wouldn't bother me further.

“My name is Georgio,” he told me, always glancing over.

“And I don't care,” I replied wryly. The bus wasn't too far off at the corner and would be coming to save me from that pitiful conversation. It stopped in front of us, so I made haste to get in. Discreetly glancing behind me, I saw that he didn't follow. He remained sitting on the bench, grinned confidently and waved a single goodbye. My eyes stayed on him as the bus pulled away, but only when it was about to turn the corner that I saw him get up and begin to walk off the opposite direction. He was so strange. I wasn't even sure how to feel about him. I just knew that I didn't want anyone getting too close. I just wanted everyone to keep me as an acquaintance so I had eyes everywhere. I honestly believed I wouldn't be seeing him again.

~~

I always tried to do my best in school. No matter what people say or heard about me, I would make sure that I kept to my own goals. My academic performance was nothing extraordinary. I'd raise my hand whenever I thought I could answer a question, or had an opinion to share. Still, I was a pretty average student. I didn't sit in the back, nor did I sit in front of the room. I stayed in the middle, which I liked to see as a metaphor of my life; always stuck in between. My grades consisted of a couple of B's, but mostly C's. The B's never represented how well I did in tests --because goodness knows I was completely stumped when it came to those-- but it was more a representation of my attendance and participation. Now the C's... they were similar to my B's, but it showed which teachers I disliked. Therefore, I hardly participated and would always try to make an escape by going to the bathroom every so often. I think I was confronted by the teacher about that at one point but I don't remember doing anything about it, either. Honestly, I had no problem being as average as I'd just described. Average means not receiving much attention. It means I can make friends with other kids who don't do well in their tests, and the ones who do well –not great-- but well. My name is Layla and I'm proud to be average.

I'm not pretty, I dress in clothes that fit or don't fit. My hair is always fashioned in a single braid. It used to be neat because my mom always offered to do it for me, but some short while after that, she just stopped. I knew that she was insecure about her bruises showing in the mirror while she fixed my hair. Her hair was always prettier when it was done up whether in a high bun or ponytail. And then she began to leave her hair down, mostly where her face could be hidden. I tried to imitate her, but she would always tell me how much she adored my hair and for me to always love it, because no other hair color suited me more. My entire family is blonde.

I'm the only person I know who has really dark hair. No matter what I did with it, it was always so healthy and so thick. Never unmanageable, never troublesome. My mom told me to always show my face. “You have a beautiful face, so don't ever be ashamed to show it to everyone.”

But Elena was so adorable with her tight blonde curls in pigtails that sometimes I couldn't help but gently pull on them and watch it boing back while she slept. I always loved doing that. Having the only charcoal-black hair in my family, it was ironic that I could never feel like one of them. I could never be average and I could never be in the middle.

One day in the lunchroom, there was all this talk out of nowhere about a new killer in town. I heard it was on the news. I didn't like watching television, so I'm always glad for updates and occasional gossip. My interest never lingered over petty things like gangs or killers and murderers. I never believed that my luck would ever come to that, where I'd end up getting raped or killed, so I never made the effort to be cautious while walking down my block at three in the morning with my earphones blasting in my ears. I'd been okay for a long time because the worst would always be waiting for me at home. To me, I was much safer outside than inside.

The talk kept on for a while after the first time I heard about it. Supposedly, there were bodies found here and there around the neighborhood, some were decapitated, some were whole but with terrible marks or something. I couldn't remember most of what was being talked about, but soon after, even the faculty started gossiping about it. I still couldn't find the time to care.

A few days into February, my mother's husband started coming home late into the night, yelling and beckoning for her to massage his feet. He was tired from work, he claimed. He needed to be soothed. Around that hour, my mom would send Elena and I into my bedroom as they went off into their own room, with his arm around her shoulders. I'd lay Elena down on my bed and play with her hair while I whispered fairytales into her ear. She would cuddle in close, ask a few questions why the prince didn't do this or that instead to save the princess. I told her that some things are so much easier said than done. That sometimes, princes need to plan ahead to be able to successfully save the princess.

“Does every girl have a prince?” she asked in almost a whisper, trying to keep her voice down as if her father could hear.

I kind of shrugged as I whispered back, “Not a lot of girls get lucky like that, but yeah. Princes are hard to find these days. They have a lot of obstacles to get past... so it hasn't been easy for them to find us.”

“So, I have a prince, too?” She blinked at me. “When I get older, I'll make it easy for him to come find me. So you, me and mama can go away, because I don't think daddy loves her anymore. He yells all the time. He's so loud.”

I smiled but said indifferently, “I think mama found the wrong prince... because not all princes are nice. Some of them are mean. So you have to be careful when you start looking for yours, and most of all, don't make it easy for them to find you... the ones that really love you will never stop at anything to save you. Okay? Because those are the best ones.” Sometimes it was hard for me to give her life lessons when all I could relate it to were these silly little fairytales, but it helped when I compared them to her father. It's like Elena would suddenly understand that instead of avoiding boys, she would only avoid those who seemed a lot like her dad. At her school, the teacher described her as timid or lonely, but I know she's not. She's not even shy; my sister's just shielded with a heavy armor. That's my girl.

One night after Elena fell asleep in my arms, I heard my mother's husband in their room yelling louder than ever, and in fear of him waking up my little sister, I went to see what was going on and swiftly got up from the bed. I tiptoed to their door and pushed it open with a finger, and I caught myself unable to breathe at the sight of my mother laying limp on the floor with her hair covering her face. My eyes matched with his, and...

Well, the next day I arrived in school with a dark bruise a little below my left cheek. I let my hair loose-- one of the very few times in which I did. And that's when it started.

Everywhere I went, some people would very discreetly bow their heads down to me as I walked down the hall, as I tried to make sure I didn't look anyone in the eye. But while some students strolled on past me, some also stopped to bow until I passed by them. They never said a word, and I never recalled ever hanging out with them in my entire high school life. It was one of the strangest events to ever occur to me. At first, I thought it was a joke someone was playing on me, so I simply ignored them and kept on going my way.

However, it didn't stop there. On my way home a few number of people bowed to me then, too. How could a joke go so far? I quickened my pace all the way to the bus stop making sure then more than ever to keep my head lowered and out of everyone's sight, but I sure was glad the stop was desolate that afternoon. It was getting a little darker out; it was a winter curse, early sunsets. Ugh. I hate it so much. Slumping down on the wooden bench, I formed cold fists inside my pockets and sighed. My neck felt a little stiff from all the slouching that day in school. I tilted it at an angle on hopes that it would crack and release a bit of tension, but my mouth hung from a small gasp when I saw Georgio sitting a few feet away from me again on the bench. He already had a cigarette in his mouth so I couldn't fathom how I was not able to smell him, especially within that short distance between us. I turned my head quickly back in place and sunk into the safety of my turtle-neck, my hair falling around my cheek.

He took a long drag and exhaled with smokey words. “You're a very pretty girl, Layla.”

I blushed. I know I did... but I blamed it on the cold and sniffled to subliminally prove it. I hoped that my nose was pink enough for him to see that it was not his comment I had blushed about. I hated that, too. Call it malnourished, anemic or whatever, but I was the palest girl I've ever seen in all my years, and so when I blushed, this tint of red would brighten up my face. In contrast to my dark hair, it made it very easy for anyone to see that color on my cheeks. I hated it.

“Do you remember my name?” he asked.

“How could I forget? You're a cologne,” I spat. Now, I didn't mean to do that. Actually, I didn't mean to speak to him at all. From the corner of my eye, I saw him turn to me.

He paused then chuckled. “That's the most cliché joke pulled on me, you know that?”

I shrugged then gave another sigh. We must have sat there for the next five minutes without saying a word, and even when he finished that smoke, he still lingered. The bus pulled up, finally, and I could feel his stare on me as I got up to leave him behind. He got up, too, and bowed his head low to me as he said, “I know you don't think it's easy to talk to anyone... but look at how easy it is for you to have said a little something to me just now. Even if it's about me being a cologne.” He grinned. “Just let me know when you're ready to get away and I'll be around.”

I watched him again through the window; I think that was the only times he and I would openly delve into one another's stare. Fucking stalker.

That night, I scoffed at the thought of him and his useless words as I cradled my sister to sleep in my arms. In the other room, I could hear the yelling again... it was endless, like he never got tired, and my mom would keep begging for him to lower his voice because she didn't want Elena to wake up-- not to the volume but to his actions. For some reason, she liked to keep her husband's image clean in front of Elena. If only she knew what her daughter already knew. That her husband was no prince. Once I heard Elena's slight snores, I made my way into their bedroom again. It's not a fun thing for me to do, but I hated the thought of my mom having to take his shit all the time. Being intoxicated was no excuse. I've met some of my drunk friends, and they seemed to be good drunk people. They laughed and joked a lot. They were so amusing and it was such good entertainment. I didn't understand where my father went wrong in that department, because it was simply not funny anymore.

I hated my mother's husband most of all. Winters get brutal and the cold can get even colder, but there was nothing worse than he. Often times, I wished he'd get so drunk that he'd just keel over and never get up. My mom watched me in horror as I entered their room and closed the door silently behind me. Never get up again.

I felt weak the next day and then just the entire week.

My eyes would close involuntarily in class. My eyes grew dark shadows around them and I had finally given up the routine of braiding my hair. During that week and the next, my face hid behind the shadows of my hair. Studying had become such a difficult task. I felt as though... I didn't want to wake up anymore.

But the bowing in school nor on the streets never stopped. However, more and more people bowed to me on the streets than in the hallways. Their heads hung and their eyes closed until I walked past them. Sometimes, I'd look back and find that they would already be on their own way. I never could understand it.

Then one March evening after I arrived back at the house from school, Elena ran up to me with a wooden box that looked huge when she held it against her chest. I carelessly dropped my keys onto the dining table and asked her with a grin on my face, “What've you got there, huh?” I took off my bag and left it on the chair and knelt down to embrace her. She had this huge smile on her face while her pigtails bounced around her.

“You have a box!” she yelled right in my face.

I giggled at her enthusiasm. “Oh, really? Where'd you get it from?” I noticed that it had a small lock on it.

“From a guy outside!”

“What guy outside?” I glanced over to the kitchen window instinctively. “You know not to talk to strangers, Elena,” I reprimanded strictly, taking the box from her. “Don't do it again, okay?” There was no one in our neighborhood we conversed with because everyone was too wary about my dad and his temper. Even my mom couldn't have any friends.

“But he said he was your boyfriend!”

“W-what?” My eyes bulged hard. “Did he say that?”

“Layla, you have a prince! You found a prince! What's inside the box?” Her dimples were deep as she danced in circles around me. A prince? It was such a stupid thought and I couldn't believe the nerve of whomever sent the box, just handing it to Elena like that. I think I blocked her out for a few minutes as I made my way past her and into my room. I was staring at the box the entire time and when I finally placed it down on my bed, I heard it crinkle. I checked the bottom and found a yellow Post-it.

”Dear Layla,

It's alright if you don't want to talk, but always know that I'm around and you're not alone. When you decide one day that you've had enough and want to get away for a night or even a day, everything you'll need will be in this box. You can do what you will, just make sure that no matter where you go or stay that the box is with you. Because when it is, I am too.

~Georgio”

What the hell? My eyes widened at the note and quickly switched over to the box sitting on my bed. I didn't care what was in it, nor was I ever curious over it, and so I planned to take it with me wherever I went so that I could give it back to him as soon as our paths crossed again.

I didn't see Georgio again for the next two years.

But he always lingered in my mind.