Mio, Run Baby Run

Chapter 1 Layla

The squeeze in my eardrums builds with each decline in the plane's descent. The mechanical screech of hydraulics unfolding thuds to a halt, locking the landing gear in place. I've spent the last eight hours confined within the narrow quarters of a metal shuttle. Saturated recirculated air wafts through the plane. Invading my senses with the unpleasant blend of stale sweat and the lingering essence of tired, overcooked pre-prepared meals. Eight hours I won't get back in my life. The swelling, white-hot pain in my ears competes with the searing pressure stinging the backs of my eyes. The intensity has built over the course of the flight.

Don't cry, Layla. Don't you dare shed a tear for her. God damn you. My stomach flips and flops over itself as the plane drops several more meters. The roar of engines ignites thrusters as the pilot completes the final steps to land. The plane transitions into a rapid descent. My fingers clutch the arms of my seat, squeezing against the soft padded cushion, nails digging in until I sense the plastic moulding against my skin. Rapidly, we descend a few more meters. My eardrums feel like they are about to self-combust. The plane tilts sideways and declines. The emotions of the past few days converge into a tsunami. Unlike a natural tsunami, my emotional tidal wave is caused by Cindy. A pathetic excuse for a mother. Her untimely death has forced me out of hiding in New York and plunged me back into a whirlwind of emotions I had suppressed for five years. My head is heavy, laden with grief. Grief for the life I received instead of the one I deserved.

Cindy's death brings a surge of relief, regret, and profound sadness. A desperate need for sleep does not help my emotional state. Sleep has evaded me in the past forty-eight hours. Traveling across the country has consumed my time. Making the arrangements for her body to be buried and going through a small box of trinkets and trophies she'd hoarded over the years, took up a fraction of the time I've wasted in the air. The wasted time was worth it to watch her casket slide into the depths of Mother Earth.

A soft, caressing monotone breathes through the cabin speakers. The calm voice is impervious to the air turbulence that's left several passengers, including me, startled. Passengers exchange shared glances, their eyes darting around the cabin to confirm the nearest emergency exit. The flight attendant relays instructions—something about the seat belt sign, air pockets, and thermal wind. I ignore it all, focusing on preparing to exit the plane and re-enter New York as Layla, once again, the persona I have created for myself. Not Ivy, daughter of Cindy, whose legacy is greater in her imagination than it was in reality.

Fidgeting with the fringe of the wig that covers my true identity, I hope to distract my overactive mind. I have never enjoyed flying. I have always been a nervous flyer, having never flown enough in my life to get accustomed to being thousands of feet above terra firma. Stoic in my seat, my mind has conjured up many scenarios. All of which results in my untimely death. I twist and tie my mousy brown hair into a textured bun on the top of my head, finding solace in the repetitive motion. Rebel strands escape, whispers of hair falling around my face. The wigs are custom made, moulded to my scalp, threaded with real hair, which is why they look so authentic. Various headpieces—short, long, blonde, brunette, redhead—take up one complete wall of my wardrobe. No one can know my true identity. The wigs are only the start in a wide range of paraphernalia I often use to disguise my appearance. I am a unicorn in my profession, an enigma. The circles I move in are well aware of the meteoric rise of my business in the cesspool of sex and seduction, even though I am not.

I have built a multimillion-dollar business with absolute anonymity. No one knows my real name or what I look like. Layla isn't even my real name. By developing intricate financial structures to launder my money. And paying a scrupulous emphasis on concealing my physical appearance, I have eluded authorities and my enemies. The real irony is that a wealthy husband, hailing from society's elite, could walk right past me and they'd have no idea that I am responsible for his wife's glowing smile. My business, affectionately called "The Gym," is the only well-known fact about me. Though I don't front the business.

I find my small handbag in the seat's back pocket. Extracting it from the firm grip, I remove my glasses. With a smooth, casual movement, I slip the thick, black-rimmed fashion accessory over my face and carefully position the middle of the frame to sit snugly on the bridge of my nose. With my armour in place, I'm ready to resume my life as Layla from New York.

"Good evening, passengers. We will now dim the cabin lights for landing. Please fasten your seat belt, stow away your tray table, and return your seat to the upright position."

Ignoring the monologue once again, I find my eyes drifting to a window where I can see a vast array of twinkling fairy lights. They streak across the landscape, pinpricks of luminosity gradually transforming into a sprawling tapestry of glittering jewels, each one representing a streetlamp, a building, or a vehicle below. I turn my head right, straining to see beyond the nearby seats. My breath catches at the sight. The small sprawling island of New York laid out before me like a red carpet of bright twinkling lights and tinsel. God, New York is beautiful. Resting in my chair, I release a sigh, satisfied that I am home.

Minutes pass. The plane descends further, chewing kilometers in seconds. A canvas of sparkling jewels against the dark night sky gets closer; the sparkles grow larger, no longer specks on the horizon. Tires screech, followed by an abrupt rhythmic thud as rubber peels across asphalt. There is a transfer of gravity, the absorption of kinetic energy on the ground takes the full weight of the plane. The flight from Los Angeles to New York seemed long, perhaps because of my yearning for the safety of New York City, away from my past demons. Exhausted and in desperate need of a shower, I can't help but think about using my most luxurious shower gel tonight. It will help wash away the dirty stench of my past.