Page 94 of Laila Manning
She was curled in on herself, and she hid behind her hair. It had been weeks since I’d seen the broken and scared version of her, part of me almost forgot she existed inside of Laila’s newfound confidence and comfort around me.
God, I was stupid. I thought telling her about Senator Lupold was a good idea because she had been so strong, conquering her fears with me and finding a new kind of normalcy, but I forgot how fragile she really was inside still.
I didn’t push her; I didn’t speak or try to crowd her—instead I slowly lowered myself down onto the floor in the opening of my front door, crossed my legs and looked up at her. She had to decide what she did next; I couldn’t do it for her.
Finally, she bent her legs and lowered herself to the floor opposite me, in her doorway and brought her knees up to her chest before resting her chin on them. She wore cozy thick sweatpants and a cardigan, almost disappearing inside the long sleeves and baggy pants, but I could see the bandage peeking out from the sleeve and my stomach cramped knowing she hurt herself because of what I did. The moment Ellie touched her, she was back inside of that building, because of me.
Still, I stayed silent, giving her my support without expecting anything.
We sat there, letting the surrounding quiet fill the space until finally she swallowed and started talking.
“I was pregnant once.” She licked her lips and took a deep breath, finally looking up again to hold my stare. “I had just turned twenty, I think, and at the time, the man that held me captive had some big-name clients.” Her shoulders shuttered as my hands tightened in my lap, but I didn’t move an inch. “The Senator was one of them, though he wasn’t a senator then.”
I stayed silent, so afraid that she’d shut down if I said something wrong, even though my brain was screaming in agony.
She went on, picking at a thread on her sleeve. “He bought me exclusively around that time, so he was the only one who got to—” She cracked her neck as her eyes closed, tears falling down her cheeks, “To rape me.” Licking her lips again, she went on, and I had no idea how she shared her story with me without breaking. “So, when I got pregnant, I knew I was in trouble. I just didn’t realize how brutal he’d be about it.”
“What did he do?” I asked, my voice hoarse with emotion.
She looked up at the ceiling as tears rolled over her cheeks while her lips trembled, “He took everything.” Her voice was no more than a whisper as she cut herself open for me. “They tied me down and brutalized me, taking everything from inside of me that made me a woman so it wouldn’t happen again.”
My blood ran cold as her shoulders broke under the weight of her horrors. The scars on her abdomen, the ones that were faded but still visible—those were from him. I asked her once about them, but she brushed it off, saying it was from a surgery she had years ago. God, I had no idea.
“I screamed bloody murder and fought them until I passed out from the pain,” Her body shook with sobs. “But when I woke up, itwas too late, they had mutilated me and stolen my future. When I was a kid, the only thing I ever dreamed of being was a mother. I wanted a house full of babies to love the way I wasn’t, and he stole that from me simply because he couldn’t risk his favorite toy carrying on his DNA and creating a scandal.” Her face contorted in anger as she screamed to the ceiling, “He stole everything from me! It didn’t matter if I escaped that hell, I would always be trapped because of him!”
I slid forward, and she dropped her head, staring at me with wild eyes, filled with so much fear and anger as I sat just out of reach. “Can I touch you?” I asked, and she nodded, falling deeper into her own despair as I wrapped my arms around her, cradling her into my body as if I could absorb her pain if I held her tight enough.
She sobbed, rocking in my arms on the hallway floor for hours as she broke apart from the pain she held in her heart.
And I did the only thing I could do; I held her tighter and told her over and over again how safe and loved she was at that very moment. I told her she wasn’t trapped and I’d give her anything she ever wanted out of life, however I could.
“I’d like to tell you why I am the way I am, if that’s okay.” I said quietly, as I continued stroking my hand up and down Laila’s back. We were on my couch, I was lying on my back, and she was lying on top of me with her head in the very center of my chest. Something about hearing my heartbeat soothed her, even before tonight, and if she wanted this contact to ease some of her grief, I would gladly give it to her.
“What do you mean by that?” she asked, turning her head to look up at me, resting her chin on her hand. Her eyes were less red, but they were still sad, and that killed me. “You make it sound like there’s something wrong with you.”
I brushed her chocolate hair back off her forehead and gave her a smile, “In a way, there is.” I said, “A lot of things. But in this case, I mean when it comes to the insane drive I have to make you happy.”
She pressed her lips to her hand and shrugged, giving me permission to start.
“I was four the first time I slept on the streets.” Her perfect eyebrows creased over her nose, and I smiled humorlessly, rubbing my thumb over it to smooth it out. “I had a mother who loved me, so I wasn’t alone. She just had no idea how to be an adult and provide a stable home for me. She was only thirteen when she had me.”
“Jesus.” Laila sighed.
“We lived at her childhood home, with my grandparents until she was seventeen and they had a falling out.” I resumed rubbing my hand through her hair to ground myself. “Part of me wants to think that they loved me and didn’t want us to end up on the street, but I’ll never know.”
“How did she navigate the streets at that age?”
“She didn’t. Not really, which was the problem. We couch-surfed from what I remember, and then that stopped, and then we were spending our days on the streets, in parks and public buildings, and our nights in shelters if we were lucky, or on those same park benches.”
“I can’t imagine how scary it was for you at that age.”
“She tried.” I reasoned, “I think she did, at least. Maybe it was just the innocent rose-colored glasses view I had of the woman I loved more than anything else in the world. In a way, she could do no wrong in my eyes.”
“Until she could,” Laila whispered, “I feel like that’s what you’re not saying.”
I took a deep breath and let her warmth ease me. Not once, in my entire life, had I told anyone about my mother. In a way, it was my shitty secret to keep, and I didn’t want anyone else knowing I was human.
Imperfect.
