Layla- Age 16--Hospital
***
I hated casts.
When I was little, I broke this same leg at a cheer camp.
What a wasted summer.
As, I pulled myself out of the hospital bed, I couldn't help think about Peter.
He was truly my only hope.
I hoped he had seen what had happened with Aimee.
I hoped he knew what she was going to do.
Because I surely didn't.
I wondered if he was just going to let me lay on my deathbed, when it was all his fault.
I hadn't killed Aimee.
He had.
This was ALL Peter's fault.
And he couldn't even show up for a simple apology.
Guys are all the same.
Speaking of idiot guys, I saw my worst nightmare standing in the door.
From the varsity jersey, to the yellow roses.
I regreted telling him my favorite color.
"Hey," said Grant with a slight smile, "Can I come in?"
I didn't want him here. He was the last thing I needed.
But yet, I said,
"Yes."
Curse my stupid mouth.
He came over and sat by me.
"I heard about Aimee," he said with a shrug.
"That....
....Sucks." he said slowly, choosing each word carefully as if any word he said ccould hurt me.
Little to his knowledge, words were the least that cold hurt me.
"I know," I said.
"I was worried," said Grant, handing me the yellow roses.
I managed to give him a smile.
He picked up my hand, and he said, "I hope this isn't too late."
I stared dumbly at him.
"I love you," he said, "I didn't realize it until it was almost too late. I have always loved you. I was an idiot for letting you go...I...I just didn't want to be one of those guys who got hung over on breakups. I wanted to be strong. But you make me weak. You're different. You are the one for me, Layla Poltone."
I wanted to strangle him.
I wanted to disappear.
Oh my God.
That's what Peter had done!
When I told him I loved him, I made him feel the same way I felt right now with Grant.
I'm the idiot.
"Lay? You can't leave me hanging," he laughed nervously.
His eyes were said, and he was getting sweaty.
He was waiting for one little sign on my blank face that would tell him I felt the same way.
It wasn't there.
I hope he didn't feel rejected, like I had that day at the funeral.
I felt his pain.
Out of pure spite in the moment, I kissed him.
It was long and passionate, the kind you see in a movie.
I hope Peter saw it. Serves him right. Hope he's jealous.
Oh crap.
I'm kissing him.
For all the wrong reasons.
I pulled away from him.
"I don't deserve you," I said, starting to tear up.
I ran out of the hospital room, feeling the pain of the stitches, and taking it.
I deserved it.
For killing Aimee.
For loving Peter.
And for taking advantage of a vunerable Grant.
Who was Layla Poltone? I asked myself.
A monster.
A killer.
A ghost lover.
A failure.
I ran down the hospital hallway.
I heard tons of ghosts.
Whenever I heard ghosts, the best thing to do was avoiding eye contact so they didn't know I could see them.
I didn't want to get involved with anymore ghosts.
Especially ghosts who decided to spend their afterlives in hospitals.
I ran out of hospital, jumping in my car.
I drove.
And I drove fast.
But fast wasn't fast enough.
I wanted crash.
To cause myself as much pain as I had caused everyone else.
At the time, it had made perfect sense.
So I drove to the car lot.
I asked for the fastest car they had, price wasn't a problem.
The tall, creepy car salesman smiled, stretching his thin mustache, and flashing his golden teeth.
"Right this way, little lady," he said in his dark voice.
And he led me inside.
