The End of Layla Ackerman

Layla Ackerman, the lowly puddle of sobs, sat shaking on the floor of her dingy bedroom. The sterling silver hairbrush lay at her side. The once beloved heirloom had rusted over in a matter of minutes, covered by the same substance splotched over the girl's bibbed night dress. Her hysterics were not new. Her illness was not new, either. But the consequences of Layla's condition have never been as contagious as they are now. 

Layla and Cecilia Ackerman are close, as is expected from two girls who share a birthday and have the same appearance. They shared clothes, dolls, and dreams, but the difference in their personalities would prove that fulfillment in life is not a universal feat. At social events, Cecilia's most lavish gowns would look ordinary on Layla. No matter how loudly she spoke, any words became whispers in Cecilia's sunny cadence. Layla was a ghost and she knew this. The spooked expressions on partygoers' faces when she would make her rare social appearances were enough to prove this. 

One such victim of Layla's demeanor would be the dark-haired man who had spent months courting her sister. Within her wide variety of suitors, Vincent Roth was Cecilia's favorite. Handsome, well educated, set to inherit the family textiles company, and, of course, completely and utterly obsessed with her. It only took seven months for the couple to establish an engagement.

Although Layla would never admit it, finding a phantomesque disposition to be much more convenient, her first encounter with her future brother-in-law hurt her deeply. She could identify the man just based on her sister's words and descriptions, but by the petrified look on Vincent's face when he turned and saw her, it was clear they had not been given equal reputations. The man's face melted out of fear that the woman in front of him was who he was going to marry. Even though Layla had heard so much about him, he didn't even know she existed. When Cecilia appeared, she turned shock into confusion and eventual relief but no amount of apologies and polite utterances could drown out the mind of Layla Ackerman. Shadows are not words; they are merely smudges in the ink, distractions to the story. 

Once Roth had revealed himself as a promising prospect, any attempts to persuade Layla into social affairs were thwarted. The family had grown to appreciate the girl's hermetic nature, as it hid away any liability within the courting process. No one had expected her to appear at the event—except the maids who helped her dress an hour prior, and even they had not known until that point. 

The night progressed with Cecilia's humored remarks and desperate attempts to explain her sister's existence to Vincent. The girls' parents engaged in hushed bickering; upset for a reason they knew wasn't good enough. They had placed more trust in her condition than in her person, but really, what's the difference?

Even though nobody said anything to her as they retired for the night, she had heard their plea. Kindred eyes sang her a tired song, one that swore her to disappear again—at least until the day of the wedding. She kept this promise well. She continued being a stranger within her own home, and being strange in general, really. Only her family, the house staff, and her ensuite mirrors had access to her dim presence, something only Cecilia took advantage of. 

Whenever she found herself in her most sullen hour, Layla had grown to expect a knocking on her door. When they had gotten separate rooms when they turned fifteen, Cecilia began sneaking into her sister's room at night. She had missed her greatest confidant and the feel of having her hair brushed, something the maids did too roughly. Even though Layla had become a rarity to most of the people in the Ackerman house, she was never as such to Cecilia. With her, she was real. 

Despite being advised to get her beauty rest on the eve of her wedding, Cecilia still made the trip to Layla’s room during their hour of secrets. Their nightly visits would come to an end after this, and after the marriage, they would be separated by kilometers instead of walls. Once again, nobody broached the topic; it would be easier not to. While her sister spoke about her wedding, Vincent, and her dreams of the future, Layla stayed silent. Her quietude wasn’t abnormal; she was a girl of few words. But this time, no amount of distracting words or stories could lift the heaviness of her own thoughts. The sentiments of her silent hours would no longer heed to distraction. 

As the ebb and flow of Cecilia's hair ceased, a thickened silence emerged. She had no time to panic as she turned to face her sister, falling back among the fragrant hoots of owls that painted the night. Their subtle song of mourning flitted through the air, accompanied by the weak ascension of Layla's sobs. The sterling silver brush that had been gifted to her by her mother lay limp and red by her side. Layla's cries eventually joined the rusty hairbrush, falling limp and numb. She didn’t feel much of anything anymore.

…

The voice of the girl's mother broke the quiet serenade of the sunrise. Cecilia was meant to be preparing for the wedding, which meant no time could be taken for granted. Still calling out for her, she knocked on the girl's bedroom door. 

“Cecilia, are you in here?” she spoke,

“Yes, I’m coming,” a sleepy tone replied.

This proved to be a good enough answer, as Mrs. Ackerman’s steps retreated back downstairs. Layla peered into the silver mirror that had sat atop Cecilia's dresser, pure and unmarred. Its eyes narrowed—Godly and just—something Layla no longer had the right to comprehend. 

By the time her mother had returned, ready to knock again as a final warning, Layla was already opening the door. With brightened eyes and a lilted voice, she spoke,

“I’m ready”