𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐁𝐔𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐋𝐘 ﹙peter maximoff﹚

𝒊𝒊. sunday surprise.

CHAPTER TWO ;
sunday surprise.
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OCTOBER, 1971

   LAYLA STARED AT her magazine, one hand flicking through it while the other was resting on her desk, her pink nails slowly drying. The nail varnish was expensive, about seventeen dollars, but it was such a nice color that the girl couldn't resist the splurge. She didn't regret it either, it looked even nicer in person than it did in the bottle.

   This was typically how her days went. She stayed in her room while her parents argued over god knows what, painting her nails or choosing her outfits for the next week or so. She would only leave her room for school, lunch, dinner or to go out shopping. She didn't necessarily mind though, her room was quite nice, with cutouts from vogue or pink magazines and Audrey Hepburn posters. She even had several love letters to Marilyn Monroe, though she wouldn't admit that in fear of fully destroying her relationship with her parents.

   She could smell tomatoes through the crack at the bottom of her door, and looked up to the clock on her wall. It was nearing six, so she shut her magazine and instead began blowing on her thumb. It was the only nail not dry, and it was annoying her greatly. It was just little things like wet nail polish or a missing earing back that sent her completely mad, and had her glaring daggers at a wall.

   She waited another five minutes, before she gingerly tapped the top of her nail. To the girls great relief, it was completely dry, and she put the bottle in her draw. It was completely color coded, and was one of the tidiest things in her room. She looked back towards her desk, about to pick her magazine up so she could continue reading, when she saw the half finished math sheet laying there.

   Oh shit, she was meant to finish that hours ago. But it was too late to continue now, because right at that moment her mother called up the stairs, letting her know dinner was ready and she needed to go down. Sighing, she got up and put on a dressing gown, mentally preparing herself for the meal with her family.

   When she got down, her mother was serving up some pasta, looking as though she was on her final straw. Layla cautiously took a bowl from the counter, and her mother looked up to glare at her. The teen avoided eye contact, moving over to the table and sitting down quietly. Her father was reading the news with his glasses at the tip of his nose. He spared her a slight glance before clearing his throat.

   "Jane, grab the wine would you." was all he said, before he looked back to his paper.

   Layla directed her eyes towards her mother, who looked like she was about to explode, and then she looked back at her father. It was so silent you would be able to hear a pin drop, calm before the storm. The brunette ate fast, her stomach in a tight knot as she waited for the fight that was sure to follow.

   Her mother grabbed a bottle of wine from the cabinet. She walked over to the table at an agonizingly slow pace, and slammed the bottle down next to him. She glared at him, her eye having a slight twitch in it, and Layla could practically feel the rage radiating off her mother. Her father looked at the bottle, then up at her mother, closing his newspaper.

   He opened his mouth, either to request a different bottle or to thank her, however her mother cut him off with a terrifying glare that gave Layla chills. Her father glared back, the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. Their daughter quietly stood up, grabbing her plate and walking over to leave it by the sink. There was absolutely no way she would watch this fight, and even if she wanted too, her hand had began to flicker.

   She rushed up the stairs, slamming the door shut and sliding down against it. She could hear her parents shouting at each other through the door but her mind was only on one thing; her hand. The tips of her fingers were now completely gone, and her whole arm was flickering and fading. She stared at them intensely, hoping that they would come back. The girl wasn't even religious or anything, but in that moment she was praying nobody looked through her window.

   Her hand was gradually coming back, though it took around ten minutes for it to be fully visible. She slowly got up and walked over to her dresser, grabbing a grey, cotton pajama set and some fluffy socks, making sure to shut her curtains before she changed. It was getting dark out, despite the fact it wasn't even seven, so she went over to attempt her math again.

   She was sat at that desk for another two hours. What did she do for those two hours? Not much math, but she re-organized her entire jewelry box and tried every lipstick shade she owned. Oh well, Mr Adley would have to suck it up, because there was no way in hell she was doing it now. She grabbed the half empty page and shoved it into her bag, and went through to the bathroom to brush her teeth and clean her face.

   It was nearing ten by the time she was done with her skin care and in bed. She heard a knock on her bedroom door and rolled her eyes, going over to speak to whoever dared disrupt her nightly routine. It was her mother, and she was stood looking impatient when Layla opened to door, despite only waiting around five seconds. She was huffing and tapping her foot, acting as though she had been waiting for hour.

   "Finally," she huffed. "I need your laundry. Have it downstairs in five, don't leave anything messy. Mary-Anne is coming over tomorrow."

   Great, the girl thought. Just who she wanted to see, Mary-Anne. She was one of her mothers friends from the community hall, a place where every mother and their snobby daughters go to make a good impression or seem like a sweet person.

   Most girls in her year go on Sundays, and Layla would have gone too if her mother made an effort with her when they moved. She would often hear girls complaining to their mothers or aunties while they were dragged along in the mornings, and just thought of having her Sunday mornings interrupted almost happy that her mother never asked her to go.

   But in the back of her mind she somewhat wished she was the one being pulled along, as silly as it may sound, because it would show that her mother at least wanted something to do with her. She shook that thought away though, because it was her own fault anyways. Her mother walked away after giving her a pointed look, and the teen grabbed her laundry basket and picked up a stray sock, before rushing after her.

   She shoved her clothes into the washing machine and ran back up, flopping back onto her bed when she got back to her room and sighing. She rolled under her duvet and switched her bedside lamp off, staring at the ceiling in the dark. Her mind was slowly drifting off, a few lone thoughts clouding her mind, which was unusual as her mind was normally annoyingly active at nights. The girls eyes closed, and she fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.

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╭・ᘐ 𓂃 : message from eleanor!!

❝ Don't be silent reader! Please vote and comment, we will meet peter around chapter 3, even if its only a brief mention ❞