My Beloved Layla

TW: domestic abuse

“It’s not that simple, okay? You want me to leave, it’s not that simple. My CD’s are in his car!”

               The audience in the video were laughing, and yet she sat there wishing it were something so small. Layla held her daughter up against her shoulder, patting her back, and watched her boyfriend laughing along to the show. She should be feeling relief – he was in a good mood, he wasn’t drinking, and he was going to be leaving for his night shift in about an hour. However, to say she felt she was walking on eggshells would be incorrect. She felt like she was tiptoeing around glass shards, barefoot and blindfolded. It was only a matter of time before she stepped on one.

               Garrett, still chuckling, glanced over and noticed Layla keeping her eyes on the top of Moira’s head, her hand tapping a gently firm rhythm as she burped the baby. There was no smile on Layla’s face, and he felt the slightest itch of discomfort. Every now and then Layla had smiled at a joke – she was never one to laugh out loud. But he knew that hunch to her shoulders, and even though he knew where it came from, it still made him feel upset. He looked back at the screen, but Garrett wasn’t really following the comedian anymore. She always made him out to be the bad guy.

               The special ended, and Garrett stood up and stretched, and in the corner of his eye saw Layla’s eyes shoot up to follow his movement, and just as quickly lower right back down. Layla was cradling Moira in her arms, the 2-month old’s wheezing breath as she slept the only sound besides the TV and his shoulder joints cracking. He knew exactly why, and once again he felt that discomfort, like a pill stuck in the back of his throat. Did she have to make such a big deal of it? He headed to the bedroom to change into his work clothes – a collared shirt, slacks, tie, and belt. A very small, niggling voice in the back of his mind reminded him it was his own fault she was that way. Instead of calming him down, that voice served to irritate him further.

               Garrett headed to the attached bathroom and began to run water through his hair and style it. He’d apologized, hadn’t he? It had been a couple weeks now, and it wasn’t like he’d ever made a habit of it. Not really. Layla was so dramatic, and so quick to hold a grudge. He was the one settling for her, and yet she acted like he was this terrible guy. Bit by bit, his thoughts became like a mad dog chasing its own tail as he prepared for work, and the vague remnants of his conscience began to get drowned out. He was tired of her flinching all the time. The first couple times, she hadn’t been all jumpy. She’d understood he didn’t set out to be that way, and he felt like maybe with her he could have a little happiness. He didn’t want to acknowledge that the more he felt ‘safe’ to do it, the more jumpy she was, the more he no longer felt so comfortable – and the more enraged he became. Layla was basically inviting him to do it – she expected it, so how could he not?

               As he continued to think on it, he felt like he was the most misunderstood man on the planet. Here he was, slaving away to provide for their little family, and this was how she thanked him? By acting like he was some sort of predator about to jump out and kill her? If she expected it, why should he disappoint her? He wanted to do better, he promised to do better. And yet she didn’t trust him, she refused to forgive him. She held a grudge, and now he couldn’t even stand up without her acting like a frightened mouse. He heard her enter the bedroom, probably to put Layla down in her bassinet. Garrett shaved on autopilot, staring into the mirror. Moira let out a cry, and he listened to Layla shushing her.

               Once, Layla used to follow him immediately wherever in the house he went. Once, she would go out of her way to engage in whatever activity he was doing. Then she got pregnant, and suddenly she didn’t want to spend so much time around him. She’d spent more time at her friends’ houses, more time out running errands. How could he have a loving partner at home if she was never in it? Bit by bit she’d phased out the visits, and yet it seemed like she was a shadow, slinking from one room to the other. It pissed him off – he deserved to come home to a companion, not some random roommate who was always holed up in another room.

               Garrett sighed and put down the razor, running his fingers along his jaw, checking for any stubble. He usually didn’t have to work nights, but lately their projects were requiring them to spend days at the office. He’d gotten a short break to come home for a couple nights before going back at it, and he would be starting so early it was easier to spend the night at the office and wake up there than to come home. He could no longer hear Moira fussing, and shortly after heard Layla’s footsteps exiting the bedroom. He clenched his teeth, and his hands dropped to the counter, clutching its edge. What was even the point of coming home? Layla didn’t want to sleep with him yet, claiming she was still healing. How long could it take a few stitches to close up? He didn’t have a companion, he wasn’t having sex, and he was about to go back to the office having done nothing at home he couldn’t have achieved there. She was thankless, that’s what she was! A thankless, spineless, miserable bitch that couldn’t see how great she had it!

               He locked eyes with himself, and for a moment, only a moment, he hesitated. Then, slowly, deliberately, he took off his belt. His entire field of vision narrowed to the belt he held in his hands. He wrapped it around his knuckles, the buckle held in his closed fist. Garrett turned off the bathroom lights and walked over to Moira’s bassinet. He took in his daughter’s peacefully sleeping face, then turned and exited the bedroom to look for her mother.