No Way Out ➵ John Murphy

19 //

NINETEEN.
❝ tell me when you're ready to plea ❞

She couldn't recall the last time she had truly felt like herself. But in her most recent memories, everything was hazy, distant. Layla had spent her consciousness either in darkness, watching her life in pictures and pieces—as if watching a television a couple rooms over. Or she had spent it in some sort of modern dystopian city, filled with people she knew and didn't, walking aimlessly, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar surroundings but being unable to come to terms with the eeriness the city protruded. People walked past her, eyes glazed over in conformity, as if without thoughts of their own; she was sure her's had looked very much the same.

But when her eyes opened, in a cruel turn events, the first thing she saw clearly in a significant amount of time was the face of John Murphy. His hair was knotted and shiny, his face scruffy and unshaven. One of his hands was placed at the base of her neck, the other hung lamely at his side. She wanted to stand up and roughly push him away but in that moment, she physically didn't have the strength.

After her rude awakening, Layla tried to distance herself from Murphy. Half because she was still hurt after his abandonment, half because she was completely embarrassed—she had heard some of the things ALIE had said, confessing Layla's love to the boy, openly displaying the hurt he had caused her. Things that Layla had thought, in her most private moments, that she wanted to keep hidden. Now they were out in the universe, without her consent, and she couldn't take them back.

She tearfully grabbed all the familiar faces into tight embraces. Everyone seemed to be riding a wave of emotion. Layla felt guilty in a way—she hadn't been on the fighting side this time, she had been contributing to the problem. But no one seemed to care about that yet.

Except Murphy, who hasn't said anything to her since she regained consciousness. Which was odd for him—she expected him to be snide, angry. Instead he stood alone, in a corner, his head hanging low. She knew why—out of all the  embarrassing truths ALIE had spewed while inhabiting her body, she had told one lie. Emori.

"Wait, Murphy," she called to him. She had seen the wheels turning in his mind and she knew him well enough to know he was plotting his exit. "I've got to telling you something."

"What?" He snapped.

Layla narrowed her eyes his way, frowning. "Emori. ALIE lied—she's alive."

Emori, she hated the way that name rolled of her tongue, making her whole body tense up. It was of no fault of the girl's, Layla could get over petty robbery for survivals sake, but it was Murphy's fault. He had run away with her, tainting Emori for Layla forever.

He nodded then stayed silent for a prolonged time. She expected him to continue his search for an escape, a way down. But he stood there for awhile, staring at her as he wasn't sure she was really there.

"I'm sorry."

Everything stopped in that moment, the emotional buzz of the room was nonexistent. She couldn't even feel Bellamy behind her anymore. It felt they were alone, living in secret—back in the bunker, where Murphy had shown a different side to him.

"I know." She replied because somehow she did know. Layla couldn't forgive him, or rather maybe she couldn't forget, but she could realize the sincere vulnerability was rooted in those two words, words she had never heard Murphy say. There was something in his stature, his whole demeanour, since she opened her eyes that was organically apologetic, as well.

The crowd enveloped her and she lost sight of Murphy but he still lingered in her thoughts. A part of her hoped when the crowd dispersed and their feet touched solid ground, he'd still be around. The other part of her, though, hoped she never saw his face again. Layla wasn't sure which part of her had won the majority.

"How do you feel?" Miller asked and Layla pursed her lips, unsure of a response. Physically, she was fine. Sore from being tasered but fine, healthy. Emotionally, she was drained. She'd spent her moments prior to this in a emotionless, painless utopia. Now, she had to face all her emotions at once as they call cane flooding back at full tilt.

"Fine," she told him. "More flustered than anything. Everything feels hazy."

"I bet," he breathed out. "Now that you're you again, mind telling me what happened with Murphy?"

Layla shook her head. "Nothing happened. I thought we were friends, he betrayed me. Typical Murphy behaviour."

"You're right that is typical Murphy behaviour," Miller paused and his gaze flickered past Layla's head. "What isn't typical Murphy behaviour is the fact he's been staring at your back for the last twenty minutes with a painful, longing expression."

Layla quickly shook her head. "He is not. You're exaggerating."

Miller tipped his head, gesturing behind her. "Don't believe me, take a look."

She slowly turned around after giving Miller a disbelieving eye roll. But when she turned, Murphy was behind her, almost lost in the crowd around him, but still there, his gaze trained on her. He instinctively glanced away as their eyes met, his head hanging low and his hands stuffed in his pockets. She could only describe it as sheepish and John Murphy hardly ever looked sheepish.

Miller was grinning cockily when she turned back around. "Told you. Now tell me the truth."

"You tell me how you could be locked in a bunker for months with someone and not feeling something," Layla replied, dancing around the truth. "That's all it was. Like Stockholm Syndrome except we were both being held captive."

Miller sucked in a breath, his features still filled with hesitance. He didn't believe her, she knew that—after many years, she'd learnt to read her best friend like a book, but Layla didn't care; she wasn't delving any deeper into the enigma that was John Murphy. She couldn't. Miller didn't press her any further though. He dropped it and with a parting squeeze of her shoulder began to mingle with the others.

Layla was left alone again but she relished in the freedom. She needed some time to sort out her mind. Everything felt old and new at the same time like she had lived her whole life and at the same time, had been reborn. It felt like an inch of dust had settled on each wiring of her brain. She even found herself extending her arm outward, and wiggling her fingertips, just to see if she was really there. She was and finally, a tiny imitation of a genuine smile found its way onto her features. She had been given a fresh start, however underserved.