Forsaken Blood

- ANGST -

Layla walked the cold lonely streets alone and aimless. She looked lifelessly at the rows of perfect houses.

Everything is fake... she thought, everyone's a liar...

She had to get away. Her heart was filled with dread and didn't want to see anyone she knew. Layla made up her mind, she was going downtown, knowing she would be a stranger there.

St. Lucy's was always a risk. Her father always reminded her of the reputation it held. Crime, drugs, homelessness, gangs - and sin. It was pretty much an unspoken rule that anyone from Charleston Hill was more or less forbidden to socialize in that slummy part of town.

Even thinking about heading that way gave you the title of troubled soul. But Layla didn't see it this way. They were human beings the same as everyone else, and perhaps even more genuine than those she lived with. She always found it ironic that Charleston Hill folk gossip about downtown so easily but never see that they themselves were the ones giving the labels and judging. Layla's heart burned with desire just thinking about exploring the so-called rough-side.

She walked to the main back street and whistled down a cab.

"Take me downtown, please." She asked.

He gave her an odd look, "St. Lucy's?"

"Yes, please. Somewhere quiet."

"O'Leary's sounds like what you are after," he muttered as he pulled his taxi away from the curb.

She leaned her head against the ice-cold window and stared out at the vivid changes. It was obvious they were leaving her well-known suburbs. The houses became smaller, the streets dirtier, the people dressed differently. You could see that their clothes didn't even fit their bodies right. It made Layla self-conscious of her own fine jacket and fitted jeans. The taxi drove on through the night passing police cars on every third street. She felt like a stranger in a foreign country.

An hour nearly passed before the cabby pulled over in front of some dingy looking Irish bar. Perfect... she thought.

"Thirty-two bucks, please," the cab driver uttered.

Layla paid him and walked cautiously towards the pub. It looked so old with its faded green paint flaking away and peeling from the walls. The O'Leary's sign itself looked like it was still the original from the 1800's.

She walked inside and the interior wasn't much different. A warm white light lit a dim room. There were a few booths at the back of the bar and a couple of old round tables in the centre. Even the smell of the place was old, like the musty odor of too many spilt beers over too many years.

There were some older men scattered around, maybe five or six of them drinking their sorrows away alone. Layla spied the front bar. It was empty and she wanted to be alone. It was perfect.

"What'll it be love?" The barmaid asked in a soft Irish accent.

"Whiskey, please," Layla replied shuffling up onto a stool.

The barmaid must have been in her mid-fifties judging by her forehead's character lines and Layla wondered if this is how she had spent her life. As she slid the glass over, Layla noticed the fading bar-top. So many people must have sat in this seat when alcohol was their only friend.

Just like me... she thought.

She cringed at the bitterness of the whiskey.

How could Jake do this to me?... she thought, what have I done? Is it because I'm not good enough?...