Faith Heals All

•Secretary for The New Baptist Church• Joshua 1:9 "Have I not commanded you? Be strong and of good courage; do not be afraid, nor be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.”

[layla-seward]

         ben-raleigh‌:

It was his turn to have his stomach twist into knots when the reporter’s unexpected show of tenderness was met with silence on the other line; Ben grimaced, already thinking of something to say to backpedal when the line went dead.

“Shit,” Ben cursed under his breath as a slight panic began to settle. He glanced at his phone, waiting to see if Layla would call back and tell him that she accidentally hanged up, but when not even a text arrived, a loud groan filled the space of the sports car as he debated on reaching out… except he really had no idea what to say as the embarrassment slowly consumed him.

Too soft?

Too much?

Too fucking cheesy?

Fuck. Maybe Layla won’t mind if he didn’t say anything about the abrupt ending of the call, the reporter thought as he prepared to leave. But before Ben could even turn on the engine, the reporter caught movement in front of the Seward house; he squinted, nose almost touching the car window when he realized it was Layla making her way towards him, barefoot and wearing an oversized shirt.

Ben quickly unlocked the door as an incredulous laugh escaped him the moment that Layla slid in the passenger seat; Bill was inside the house and could very well wake up at any moment and find his wife gone and that very thought was mind-boggling for the reporter. What was Layla thinking? What was he thinking? Ben was about to comment on her rain-soaked state when the redhead leaned in for a kiss that he eagerly accepted, parting his lips as her cold, damp hand rested on his cheek while Ben’s own hands rested on her shoulders.

When she finally pulled away, blue eyes fluttered open as a grin spread on Ben’s face; was this what he imagined would happen when he recklessly drove there in the early hours of the morning? Ben wasn’t sure, but Layla pressing kisses on every bruise she could find on his face left the reporter all ruddy-cheeked and warm– she had a tendency to surprise him with her softness.

And then she lifted his shirt, the sudden gust of cold on Ben’s midsection making the muscles contract; Layla traced a finger along the stitches, eliciting a soft gasp from him at the coolness of her touch. Ben watched her, swallowing a lump in his throat, as the redhead leaned in to press her lips against the injury, traveling upwards to press another kiss until Layla pulled away again, catching him with parted lips. She chastised him, almost sounding motherly that got Ben to crack a smile before her next words made him pause.

“I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you.”

Ben wanted to argue that there was no way to prevent that, not with the way he’s been running around in and out of Wheeler for a case; but he didn’t want to spoil the moment, fully aware that this was borrowed time. So the reporter nodded, his smile turning into a breathy chuckle as he cupped Layla’s face and pulled her for another kiss.

“Okay,” he nodded, as Ben spoke through the kiss; his hands slid down her arms and felt her damp clothing. “You’re wet, lemme just…” and without pulling away the reporter reached to turn the heater on high. His mouth traveled down her neck and Ben murmured the rest of his sentence against Layla’s skin.

“…keep you warm.”

She fell into the kiss with ease, tasting the words he spoke against her mouth, and a smile formed on her lips. Ben’s hands were hot as they ran down her arms, and as a shiver swept through her, the woman was suddenly aware that she’d been cold. The warmth of his breath tickling her skin, and he heat from the air aided in her slowly growing temperature, as Layla laughed softly. 

“You know, they say body heat works best for that,” She teased, tipping her head back as her eyes fluttered shut. 

Layla wanted so badly to climb over the divider between them, to settle into him, feel the heat of his body against hers, the way his hand would come to rest upon her bare thigh, savor the way the steering wheel pressed into her back when he kissed her. The temptation danced in front of he, as Ben played with the bottom of her shirt, sliding it up to reveal her waist. Bill was across the street, his presence filling every inch of their home, even in slumber. If she’d spared a moment to look across at the large dark house, maybe Layla would have decided against it-- decided that only a minute or two could be spared. But Bill’s seemingly unescapable presence didn’t reach the interior of the reporter’s car, and with his mouth against her skin, her eyes closed as her hands slid to his shoulders in search of something to anchor herself, Layla didn’t glance back towards the house, didn’t pause to consider her husband. 

Perhaps it was the events of the previous night that left her feeling uncharacteristically reckless, or maybe it had more to do with the man whose finger’s skimmed her torso. Layla sucked in a breath, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as she shifted in the seat. Her concern of hurting him mingled with the desire to get closer, and the woman remained where she was, guiding his mouth back to hers until Ben’s hand found her thigh, fingers pressing softly into her flesh as he firmly guided her over the console to settle into his lap. 

She was breathless, heart racing, unable or unwilling to pull away though her hand slid down his torso, coming to rest just above his injury, as she held herself carefully. Layla kissed him, lips brushing against his with every word. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispered, before pulling away. Layla looked at him, blue eyes finding his in the darkness, as she pushed his hair back. She could read it in his eyes, tell by the way he was looking at her that Ben wanted it as bad as she, and the redhead bit back a smile. Leaning forward, she nipped softly at his throat, “I don’t want to hurt you,” she repeated, before pressing a lingering kiss to his skin. And another, and another. 

[layla-seward]

ben-raleigh‌:

“Okay, um…” Ben struggled for words, quite a feat for someone with always something to say and write. He wasn’t sure how to take Layla’s admission of always being truthful to him, it was sweet he supposed, sweet but unnecessary and the reporter was about to say something in response but she interrupted him.

‘I don’t think we should see each other anymore.’

He paused, blue eyes trained on the redhead before nodding, and Ben tried to suppress a wry smile as his gaze moved back to the screen. He found nothing in her expression to give away what she might be thinking, and the reporter wanted to stare at her longer like she was a picture, to search for clues that weren’t there. Freeze frame. 

He continued to watch the movie as if the silence that immediately followed Layla’s remark wasn’t enough time to process everything, but it was futile, he already knew what’s to come next with Émile and Angéla making up. Ben sighed as he finally turned his attention back to her.

“Alright,” He nodded as the credits begin to roll. “Let’s stop seeing each other.” Ben’s response was simple, as though Layla had just asked him if he liked that the sky was blue, and the reporter pressed his lips together to stop himself from saying more.

Panic set in the moment after the words had left her mouth. She’d spoken before she could stop herself, let it tumble past her lips without the carefulness with which she usually spoke. Layla was usually one to choose her words with a deliberate nature, never being one to let things slip and yet there she was, looking at him with her lips slightly parted, heart hammering, and wishing wishing she could swallow the words back down. But no, she reminded herself, this is what needs to happen next, this is the only option. What good could come of that sickening twist she felt when she’d seen Ben’s injuries, what good could come from the way her chest had tightened uncomfortably when the reporter had mentioned another woman in his life, what good could come from always wanting a little more time when she had to leave? None. There was nothing there, no where to go, and nothing to offer. It was affecting her marriage, it was making things worse, and if there was any chance she and Bill were going to clean up the shit show that had become their relationship then Ben couldn’t be in the picture. No matter how much she genuinely liked him.

He looked away, and a beat later, Layla did the same, allowing him time to let the words settle. They watched the end of the film in silence, each confined to their own seat, not touching. Her hand twitched in her lap, and the woman bunched the fabric of her dress in a fist to keep it occupied. The end was touching, and it was easy for the redhead to blame the tears in her eyes on the couple’s reunion. She’d never cried in a film before, not even when Marly had to be put down, or when Jack let go of the door, or when the young boys were led into the gas chamber. Now she was trying not to blink, willing her eyes to dry as they spoke those last lines, as Émile called her horrid, and Angéla corrected him.

Non, je suis une femme.

The credits rolled, and a tear fell on Layla’s cheek, swiftly wiped away by the back of her hand. She was staring down at her hands when he finally spoke, and redhead looked up to focus on him instead as a wave of… disappointment washed over her. “Alright?” She asked, “That’s it? Just, alright?” She said the word as he had, in that casual tone, that indifference, as though she were suggesting they go for a walk or some other mundane activity. Thats not fair, said the voice in the back of her head, but Layla ignored it. She wanted him to care more, she’d expected him care more, and now she felt stupid for the hurt that settled in her chest. She looked away, back towards the front where French names were still flashing across the screen, and shook her head.

“How many other married women have you slept with?”

[layla-seward]

ddasamholt‌:

location: first assembly baptist church

time: morning leading up to vigil 

status: closed to @layla-seward

Sitting on the corner of Layla’s desk, Sam let out a groan as she flipped through the details that’d been sent out regarding that evening’s vigil. Cricket, in true Cricket fashion, had seemed to have taken full reigns over the event, delegating separate individuals to various tasks that needed done. It was on the second page when Sam saw her name, fortunately with Layla’s right beside it, although she doubted two people were necessary given the nature of the task detailed below. 

“The collection cans? That’s what we’re supposed to do?” Normally she wasn’t one to complain verbally, preferring to keep her ill-natured thoughts to herself. After the little fiasco with Laura Leigh though, she’d been finding herself more and more verbal when it came to her distaste in the actions of the Carrolls as of late. Handing the paper over to Layla she let out a sigh, she figured there were worse tasks to be assigned to, although she was having a hard time thinking up of one in the moment. 

“I don’t even think I know what a Cricket Carroll approved collection can would look like, other than painted purple.” 

Layla swiveled slowly back and forth, unlit cigarette in one hand, and lighter in the other as she listened to Sam read off their jobs. Cricket, supreme ruler of all things planning, had taken it upon herself to delegate jobs for the upcoming vigil. Never mind that she hadn’t done much to help with church’s representation at the annual carnival, potlucks were more credential worthy. In actuality, Layla was thankful to not have the responsibility, not with everything that had been on her mind. Another straw might have broke the camel’s back, so to say, and the small job of collection cans brought a wave of relief to the redhead. Still, her annoyance at Mrs. Carrolls assumption that Layla and Sam couldn’t handle a more important job, brought with it an idea.  

Layla’s gaze had wandered, but snapped back towards her friend when the woman spoke out. That was new, she noted. Amusement captured her features, and Layla placed the cigarette and lighter on the desk. “I don’t either,” she said, standing, “But I absolutely know what they don’t look like.” Layla leaned onto her hands, a smile on her lips, and eyebrows raised as she offered a suggestion. 

[layla-seward]

ben-raleigh‌:

It was foolish, risky but most of all thrilling and that alone was enough reason for Ben to give in to such an impulsive act. Perhaps it was the events from the night before that made the reporter feel reckless– something about life and its fleeting moments – and he turned off the engine to let the darkness conceal him.

“I’m sitting in my car and looking at a beautiful two-story home,” he explained and Ben peered out to check the curtained windows of the house, somehow expecting Bill Seward to appear and turn the lights on. “And I’m waiting for a gorgeous redhead to appear from the back porch– can you tell your neighbor to come out and meet me for a second?” he teased and the reporter grinned.

“You don’t really have to come out,” Ben quickly clarified, and his free hand gripped the steering wheel for support. “You can just stay where you are or I can wait for you to go back to bed.” His voice had become a whisper and the reporter sighed.

“I just wanna make sure you’re alright, I guess.”

Layla’s stood looking out into the drizzle as a sudden cool breeze riddled her skin with goosebumps. She could still hear the sound of Annie Lennox coming through the speaker of his car, and fought the urge to hum along until suddenly it stopped. She already knew and yet her heart skipped a beat when he answered, and the woman couldn’t help the little smile that spread over her lips, or the drop of laughter that followed Ben’s teasing remark. He continued, clarifying that she needn’t come, that they could just stay on the phone until she decided to crawl back in bed with her husband, but Layla was already making her way down the steps.

I just wanna make sure you’re alright, I guess

That made Layla pause, heart hammering in her chest from the thrill and... something else? She opened her mouth, but she didn’t know what to say, or how to say it, so the secretary said nothing at all, and ended the call instead.  Gripping the mobile in her hand, The grass felt cool, and slick beneath bare feet  as she made her way towards the front of the house. The sun would start its ascension soon, and the woman hated that fact. She wanted to stay this way for as long as she wanted, she wanted him for as long as she wanted-- but that wasn’t possible, so she’d make do with what she was offered: a few minutes in his car, cloaked by that early morning shadow that someone always seemed darker than the dead of night.

The rain fell softly against her, wetting her skin, her shirt, her hair as Layla gingerly crossed the street. She was clad in nothing but an oversized t-shirt and cotton underwear, but there was no one around to see Layla Seward sliding into the passenger seat of the reporter’s car. Or maybe there was, and a thrill shot through her like a low voltage shock. Before he could say anything Layla leaned across the center console and captured his lips in a brief kiss before she was pressing forward again; she drew as close as possible and placed a hand on his cheek to keep him there, as she let the embrace continue until she was out of breath. 

Finally pulling away, she looked at him, blue eyes tracing the bruises on his face with a slow, purposeful recognition. Her gaze met his for a moment and then she was leaning in to press a gentle kiss to the blossoms of purple, careful not to hurt him. When she had cared for each one, Layla’s attention drew lower, looking down at his abdomen as she swallowed. She hadn’t expected to be so bothered by the injuries, having laughed off the information about the fight with more amusement than concern. But now, sitting here beside him, she felt her stomach twist with a medley of emotions that she was too tired to dissect. They remained silent as Layla reached down to pull up the hem of his shirt, revealing the line of stitches that was Doctor Moss’ handy work. She stared at it for a moment, and unable to resist, Layla brushed her thumb over it with a feathered touch. His skin was warm, almost hot against her cool hand, and she sucked in a breath, before shifting so that she could press a kiss against the wound. She kissed him again just above the stitches, where the skin had bruised, before drawing up again and letting his shirt fall.

“You better start listening to me, Ben Raleigh,” She said, placing a finger beneath his chin as she chastised him, and with an echo of his earlier promise,  “I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you.”

[layla-seward]

ofpecnies‌:

florence abernathy was taken aback. no, not like a deer in headlights or someone caught in the act. she was shocked that she had underestimated layla seward. for all the people who liked to gossip about the southerner, none had ever dared say anything straight to her face, even the ones who were ever so insecure about their own husbands. 

sure. they act all friendly just for the sake of interacting with florence and maybe even to get to say they had somehow “killed her with kindness”. but that was all just for the sake of bragging rights while having done nothing at all. layla, though…

a little smile grew across florence’s face as she prepped the coffee pot, pouring grounds into the filter and water from the pot into the machine itself. she was in no rush - the two woman had all day. after florence had closed the top of the black machine and it had started humming, florence turned, smile plain on her face for layla to see. her chest was humming with excitement and it took everything in her not to laugh in the woman’s face.

“so we’re bein’ honest today, are we?” she raised a brow. “i wonder if you’ve asked him that yet…i always thought it was so funny how men are always seem to be made some sort of victim in scenarios like this, as though the other woman was a succubus or somethin’. personally, i think it’s worse for the husband to have an affair. he’s the one that’s married after all,” florence shrugged. reaching behind herself, florence grabbed the tin of cookies and popped the lid off, grabbing one for herself before passing it to her guest. the coffee pot sputtered.

her hazel eyes never left layla’s and her smile never wavered. “no, darlin’, i’m not fuckin’ bill. and that’s not due to lack of tryin’ on his end, believe you and me. that man comes over so many times durin’ the week, i’ve started wonderin’ if i shouldn’t have a guest bedroom made up for him. and the way he looks at me, talks to me, touches me…” she waved her hand with a roll of her eyes. “you get it. the man’s as horny for me as a cat in heat,” she stated bluntly, taking a bite of the cookies and humming in delight. 

“but he’s as dumb as a box of rocks. he really thinks he has a chance. he’s an arrogant fool, layla.” she was sure the redhead was well aware of that. all wives knew and tolerated the shortcomings of their husbands. “i enjoy sex but i have never done anything of the sort with any married man. after all, i found out my last husband had been sleeping around on me. bet your little church mice didn’t know that.” she stated, letting that hang in the air for a moment. her smile had dimmed, leaving a mischievous smirk in its wake. “i’d never do that to another woman. and you can bet your bottom dollar i made him pay dearly for it, as should you.”

She’d never shied away from confrontation, in fact Layla got a thrill from the rush of adrenaline, the preparation for battle as she watched Florence’s expression change. Of course she was smart enough to enter without armor and a weapon, she’d never run blindly towards confrontation simply for the sake of a fight. The redhead had taken time to reexamine the aspects of her life that were falling apart, the things she had once held so dear that now crumbled into disrepair. She was attempting to put the pieces back together, and despite Florence’s intimidating presence, with all her youthful femininity and tantalizing allure, Layla was determined to get answers. The woman smiled, and Layla’s gut twisted into knots. This was a game to her, something to keep her pretty little head occupied as she lived out her days in this quiet, sleepy town. She saw it written on her face before Florence even began to talk, and she pressed her lips together to keep the daggers from slipping out of her mouth. 

“No,” Layla answered, tone level as she held her gaze, “I haven’t asked Bill because I know for a fact that he’d lie to me. With you, on the other hand, I figured I had a fifty-fifty shot. So...?” She took the tin, but didn’t reach for a cookie. The redhead could pretend to be calm and collected, to have some semblance of control over the way she was feeling, but she felt sick to her stomach. How fucking hypocritical. 

She hadn’t been sure what to expect, but the answer that Florence provided certainly wasn’t it. The way she described speaking so casually about the mayor’s infidelity, his desire for the beautiful souther belle, the way he made himself so available to her... Layla hadn’t expected the answer to hurt as much as it did. She hadn’t expected to be so bothered given her own unfaithfulness, and yet that wasn’t the reality. Her grip tightened on the cookie tin, and Layla finally looked away. She glanced around the kitchen, assessing Florence’s space with this added dimension. He had stood where she now did, gazing at Florence with a certain look he’d given Layla years ago. She hated Florence for that, for possessing something Bill had decided his wife no longer had-- an appeal she would always be chasing. 

Wetting her lips, Layla shook her head and turned her eyes back to Florence. “He’s not dumb,” She amended, placing the cookies on the counter, “Just cursed with hubris.” Her voice was quiet, a softness that seemed akin to the calm before the storm. She was attempting to process it, to truly believe he’d invite this woman to sit next to his wife in church. And touch her. But Florence wasn’t free from blame here. Not at all. 

The sliver of information didn’t go unnoticed by the secretary, and she slipped it away for now, with a blink.  “And if you’re Miss Righteous Madonna why are you entertaining him? Letting him into your home, letting him touch you, letting him think he might get to fuck you with a just a little more effort on his part. All of that  keeps him coming back. And you’re smug, happy as a clam to give me a little description.” She swallowed, keeping thoughts of Ben and her own adulterous secrets at bay. “Is that something that you’re proud of?”

[layla-seward]

amiraglenn‌:

Amira waited for Layla’s rebuttal, arguing away any notion that god could possibly have a place at the table they were seated at now. Those words never came though, and instead the witch instead found something else as she looked across the table at the woman. There was a vulnerability in her gaze, a crack in her mask of porcelain, one that Amira had never seen before in her, and made her wonder just how many had. For a time Amira saw the mayor’s wife as just another chink in the chain of the local church, yet another who saw herself so above those who dared crossed the chruch’s threshold, and even those who didn’t. That wasn’t what she saw anymore as she looked over at her, and the thought of how wrong she’d been shook her more than she expected. 

Licking her lips that’d grown dry, Amira nodded her head in return, and glanced back down at the task at hand. First she looked at the Five of Pentacles [X], the very same card she’d drawn for Bill Seward weeks ago. There was a meaning to be read from just from that very fact alone, although Amira found herself in a difficult spot. She prided herself on the secrets she kept for those in Wheeler, one of those secrets being the mayor’s presence time and again in her room. No, she couldn’t betray that trust, no matter how indifferent he acted to her outside those four walls. She was going to have to find another way to get the meaning across. “The Five of Pentacles,” she began, leaning up as she did so, “Notice the two figures, clad in rags, the man in the back is looking behind him and has to rely on a pair of crutches to carry his lamed legs forward. The woman ahead of him has her eyes set straight ahead. Both seem lost, searching for a place of warmth and shelter, but although they travel the same path they seem completely isolated from one another, their gazes and even the way they are standing are in opposing directions. If they were to turn towards one another though then they’d notice something important,” Amira added then pointed her finger to the stained glass window. “A place of shelter, a church in this case, possibly to help shelter them from the cold. But because they seem so isolated from one another they have grown completely blind to what is lying right in front of them.” Studying Layla’s gaze, she looked to see if she was beginning to catch on to what the witch was implying. Regardless of what she saw there she continued. “You and someone close to you have grown distant from one another, you follow the same path, but separately, your divided attentions causing harm to both of you as you try to deal with the tragedy you’ve both found yourself in the thick of. It will only be when you redirect your gaze towards one another, whether in a decision to go forward together as a unit or separate entirely, will you be able to begin to find the solace you desire.” 

Shifting her gaze over to the last of the three cards, Amira slid it in front Layla, indicating she was about to begin the last of the three translations. “The Eight of Cups,” [X] she began, “Notice the way the cups themselves are stacked in the foreground of the image, it appears as though one is missing, yes?” Reaching her hand forward, she pointed her finger towards the gap between the top two cups on the far right. “This usually indicates a lack of fulfillment that you feel in life, something is missing and no matter how much you’ve looked for it, you’ve yet to find it. Notice in the man in the background, his back turned towards his dilemma with a traveling stick in hand. It appears he’s given up on finding what he’s been searching for, and instead has chosen to flee from his dilemma, leaving the problem entirely as he searches for something else to fulfill him.” Moving the Five of Pentacles beside the card, she creates a small triangle in front of Layla, with the Five of Pentacle and Eight of Cups as the base, and the reversed Empress at the top. “You have been running away from the problems that have ate at you for years,” she said, pointing towards the turned figure in the Eight of Cups card. “You’ve turned away from people that you once looked to in such hard times,” she added, moving her finger to sit atop the isolated pair in the Five of Pentacles, “leaving your world as a whole reversed, a mirror image- but a distorted one of the life you previously had, or thought you had,” she paused, moving to point up at the reversed empress. “It is only when you begin to address the very things you’ve avoided will you begin to find equilibrium again.” As a way to conclude her translation, she then turned the crowned woman upright to complete the picture she painted. 

When she’d decided to veer off the road and onto that missable gravel road Layla hadn’t expected anything more than cleverly worded generalizations that could apply to any number of people. She’d expected to leave the reading with a reestablished faith in God, in His word, and His divine plan. She’d truly expected reassurance in what she knew to be true, in the life she had so readily pretended was her reality. Not once during the drive, or when she’d walked to Amira’s front door, or sat down at that little table had Layla thought she’d find a path to insight. She’d been ignorant in thinking Amira had nothing to truly offer her, and she’d been wrong to think she was in control of her life. It stung that it was the fabled witch in the forest who laid it out so clearly, and not her Beloved Father, but Layla wasn’t so devoted that she’d deny a truth that sat right in front of her. Despite the jarring uncertainty it left her with, she focused on everything the other woman had to say. 

Layla’s quiet contemplation stretched on after  had finished in her explanation and interpretation of their meaning. It didn’t take much for her to decipher how they applied to her reality. She could see them, see their tired, desperate faces looking in opposite directions, disconnected as they searched for the same thing. She could see Bill looking ahead, always ahead, and the redhead could see herself looking back wondering what demons were chasing her. They were both blind in different ways, unable to see what was right in front of them-- what they needed. Bill focused so much on the future, never allowing a moment to look back, to see what they’d left behind, the good parts that were forgotten, pretending the bad hadn’t happened in this desperation to grasp what was always out of reach. And she, so focused on days past, on her start in life, on all the things that had made her fearful and somehow unworthy, what she couldn’t have that she ignored everything she could have. Layla and Bill twisted together like gnarled vines, so intertwined that to pull one away might kill the other, and yet was she not dying anyway as he sapped away at the nutrients, leaving her to wither. 

And then there was the man fleeing, leaving his problems as he allowed something else to occupy his energy. Ben. Was he not simply a distraction from the problems the plagued her life? Simply isn’t how it should be described, lent an unhelpful voice in the back of her head. She’d done so well ignoring that part of it, so well in fact that it had manifested without her knowing it. Layla was running towards a man who was practically a stranger in an attempt to escape the crumbling foundation of the most important relationship in her life. It was all coming on too fast, too much said at once as all three of the assessments were laid out before her. They formed a triangle on the table, a reading of her life, a representation of all that was wrong. It was overwhelming, and in that small room surrounded by knowledge and power she knew nothing about, Layla realized it was hard to breath. She opened her mouth to speak, maybe to ask for water, or to excuse herself, but her mouth was too dry, and her lungs too out of oxygen. An attempt at a deep breath was nothing but a faltering inhale, and when Layla suddenly stood, her hands shook. 

“Sorry,” she croaked, the chair scarping against the wood floor as it slid back. Layla spun around, pulling open the door and stumbling out into the night air. She closed her eyes, sucking in deep lung fulls, panic gripping her in its constricting hold. She shouldn’t have come, why had she come?

[mrmonst3r-deactivated20190802]

Visit Original Link

[aseaofquotes]

Charles Bukowski, “Working it Out”

[layla-seward]

ben-raleigh‌:

They were on borrowed time and that was it, and while it was a truth unspoken, there would be moments that served as a glaring reminder of that fact. Like when Layla pulled away as another couple who were in the cinema decided to take their leave. 

Ben untangled himself from her, eyes still on the screen as he looked unfazed, but the reporter was aware that they were the only ones left inside the cinema with some time to spare before the credits rolled. Had this been a few months back, he would have already captured Layla’s lips and made the most of the brief privacy they’ve been given. 

“Hi again,” the reporter greeted, smiling briefly as he peeled his eyes from the colors on the screen to look at her. Something heavy hung in the air, a tension that was unlike before and despite his reservations, Ben decided to find out what it was no matter the outcome. That had always been the case with him after all. 

“How are you holding up?”

She was never nervous around him, it was one of the aspects that had made their routine all too easy for the redhead. It was a simple fact, something she hadn’t really put much thought into, and had taken for granted. He was easy to talk to, easy to kiss, and easy to sit in silence with. So why, suddenly, as they sat amongst the rows of empty seats, did Layla feel nervous? As though this was a first date, and she wasn’t sure what came next as they found themselves alone. There was an unfamiliar energy between them, something viscous and impossible to ignore try as she might while watching the screen. She couldn’t decide whether she wanted to address it or not, but Ben made the decision for her. 

“Hi,” she responded, leaning towards him though her eyes remained focused on the film. The reporter’s question finally prompted her to look at him, and Layla’s blue eyes met his. The screen through changing light over his features, creating shadows that danced across his skin with a life of their own. It was one of those images the redhead was sure she wouldn’t forget, that years from now she would still remember and hopefully think fondly upon. She did truly wish that when this ended, when there was nothing left for them to say or do, that it would be amicable. 

“I’m fine.” She said, the automatic response she’d been conditioned to supply. But it didn’t feel right, not with the way he was looking at her, or the strange way her stomach tightened. Layla blinked, and breathless laughter was pushed past her lips as she shook her head. “You know, I think that was the first time I’ve lied to you,” she admitted, eyebrows furrowing slightly as she thought about it. She still whispered despite the lack of an audience to disrupt, and after a moments pause, she finally offered him a real answer. “I’m exhausted. Really fucking exhausted.” The curse word slipped out of her mouth with ease, something that had begun to be a habit in the last couple of weeks. She didn’t even remind herself to repent for it later. 

Her gaze remained on Ben, and she leaned her head back against the seat, biting her lip. She thought back to what he’d told her all those weeks ago, about seeing far worse than their discovery in the salvage yard, and  how one could grow familiar with almost anything. She’d grown used to the discourse in her marriage, had grown used to the feeling of being inept, of needing her husband, and that constant edge of anger, and disappointment. She’d grown so used to suffocating that her lungs had shrunk to accommodate. 

Amira Glenn had laid it all out in front of her with three yellowing cards, and Layla had no choice but to ponder what had been said. The same Amira Glenn that Ben had so casually referred to as Mira. She couldn’t help but wonder if he had feelings for the woman, if they were involved. It made her stomach twist uncomfortably to think about, but again, she was met with the limitations. If he wanted to pursue her, he was welcome, and Layla was in no place to interfere. 

“Ben,” she said, interrupting him, “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

[layla-seward]

ben-raleigh‌:

There was silence on the other line for a while before what sounded like a huff then a suppressed chuckle passed through the receiver; Ben was caught off guard by the joke, flustered and amused as he finally managed a lame reply while trying to regain his composure. He thought about how he liked that she could make him laugh at unexpected times.

“Yeah, I guess that’s about right.” 

He got the engine running again, mobile phone on speaker as he slowly maneuvered back on the road. Layla’s question was open-ended and gave Ben the freedom to interpret it in different ways, he knew that the Seward Residence wasn’t too far from where he was right now and the thought of going there to see her in the middle of the night left him with a strange excitement– it had never been done before.

“What now?” Ben echoed as he bit and released his lip while weighing his options. Blue eyes darted to the fork in the road before making a turn, and the reporter turned on the radio, keeping it to a low volume to fill the prolonged silence in between his responses while he drove. 

“I don’t know what happens, guess we’ll have to see.”

Being face to face with the headless corpse just hours ago and the stress from trying to secure the autopsy report felt like a distant memory with the way their phone conversation ensued, and as the impressive generations-old family house came into view, Ben slowed the car down and picked up the mobile from its holder.

“Where are you right now?”

He repeated her question, and Layla remained silent, waiting for an answer as she continued to watch the spider that was now making a slow pilgrimage across the ceiling. Her offer She could almost hear the contemplation in the silence that followed, and her heart began to beat a little faster. It was something they’d never done, a line they hadn’t crossed yet, and something about seeing him at such a late hour, and so close to home left her with a buzz of anticipation. She drew lazy shapes on her bare leg as the sound of the Eurythmics Here Comes the Rain Again began to play softly in her ear. 

The rain had eased a little during Ben’s visit with Doctor Moss, and it fell lightly now beyond the shelter of the porch. His lack of a proper response left her on edge, and Layla finally stood up, pushing away from the swing as she began to pace slowly back and forth again. “Alright then,” she said, a smile playing at her lips. Excitement swept through her, leaving her on edge as she bought into the uncertainty. She liked how he hadn’t said it outright, how he left it in the air.  

A distraction, thats what he was, a hell of a distraction, and one she so desperately needed after the last night’s events. 

“I’m on the back porch,” she answered, looking out across the yard, “Where are you?” Her heart was beating fast now, making her slightly out of breath as she waited for his answer, and Layla was unsure if there was ever a time she wanted to see him, to touch him, more than that moment. 

[layla-seward]

ofpecnies‌:

“florence,” she stated, “just florence. please.” the brunette took her time locking the door, even jiggling the handle and pushing on it back and forth to ensure its sturdiness. it would do. 

“yes, well, i suppose i’m not as interesting as everyone seems to think i am.” florence shot a look at layla before setting her gloves on a small table next to her shoe rack, where she placed her shoes. 

walking into her kitchen, florence set the cookies on the counter before grabbing her coffee pot, moving to fill it with water. “you seem chipper today.” florence did her best to make it sound like a simple observation and not let the undercurrent of bitterness seep into her words. wife of the mayor of the town that was turning into a slaughterhouse, a texas chainsaw movie. and she was baking cookies. “why’d you come here, layla? i mean really.”

Layla turned, watching as Florence secured the lock, and checked to make sure it was set in place; the woman’s actions reminded Layla of the candelabra that she held every time someone came to the door-- it was almost comical how Wheeler had suddenly been turned on it’s head. It was always interesting to see people in their homes, watch the way they interacted with their space. It gave people a certain... honesty that wasn’t there otherwise. 

Oh, I doubt that, Layla thought, but she kept her lips pressed together in a slight smile, and followed behind to the kitchen. She looked around their new surroundings until Florence spoke, and her blue eyes shifted towards the brunette. “Do I?” She asked, somewhat surprised at the observation, and not altogether fooled by her tone of voice. The smart ass response that often found itself being bitten back, was once again swallowed as Layla left her response at that. 

But it seemed Florence was done with her act of indifference, and the secretary couldn’t blame her. She’d found herself getting nearer and nearer to the basis of who she was, no longer settling for the image she worked hard to present. “I guess I came to find out if you’re fucking my husband.” She said matter of factly, sure to keep the chipper nature of her voice intact. “And to bring you cookies.”

[layla-seward]

ben-raleigh‌:

‘What are you doing?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Did you just take a picture of me?’

‘No… Okay yes, it’s evidence.’

‘It is evidence.’

‘Not like that, it’s just in case you turn out to be like Ted Bundy.’

‘Like what?’

She suppressed a laugh, careful not to disturb the few others who watched with them and Ben frowned, feigning offense before smiling in mischief. Layla mouthed a playful ‘no’ to stop him and amidst the opening credits, their outlines remained connected, his lips upon hers and hands exploring each other in the dark.

                               ______________________________

“Hi, I’m Ben,” he greeted back in a whisper, unable to suppress the smile that formed on his lips; Ben kept his gaze on the screen for a while despite having seen the film a few times, his brows were furrowed as he pretended to concentrate before finally giving in to turn his head and look at her. 

The pale colors from the ensuing scene reflected on Layla’s skin as his blue eyes followed the movement of light and shadows; Ben felt a sense of relief, surprised that he was even feeling anything other than nonchalance at the possibility of her standing him up. After all, they were free to walk away anytime, but the curious tightening in his chest since afternoon, lingering until he walked in the cinema as the lights dimmed and the opening credits rolled, gave the reporter pause. 

Was it because of how things ended the last time that they saw each other that got Ben feeling uneasy? Everyone was understandably on edge, with the onslaught of the storm and an accompanying blackout that lasted until morning– and those things, white-clad figures that wreaked havoc only to disappear into the night –it tainted everything and everyone, taking root and slowly corrupting anything that might bring any sense of joy or comfort.

“You made it,” he spoke again and Ben fought the urge to lean in and kiss her, choosing instead to squeeze Layla’s hand that rested on the armrest separating them. Perhaps it was wishful thinking to believe that he would have plenty of time to kiss her after, that maybe this wasn’t the start of a slow dance to their exits, but not even at the reporter’s most idealistic and most naive phase did he ever deny something that was bound to end.

Ben wanted to say something else, to ask her things and know more, but words only served to spread that stain from a few nights back. So he kept quiet, raised his arm to wrap it around Layla despite the partition and adjusted in his seat to make himself comfortable for the duration of the movie. Every now and then he would glance down at her, and once, during the scene where  Angéla finally gives in to Alfred’s advances, Ben pressed a kiss on top of Layla’s head and pretended that he did nothing. 

He played along and Layla kept her eyes on the reporter, watching him instead of the screen, studying his his profile in shadow instead of reading the subtitles as French came through the speakers. She looked until he turned to face her, offered him a moment of her gaze, and then shifted her gaze to the film. The anxiety that had plagued her on the drive over, and the uncertainty that had accompanied her to the ticket booth, the slight panic as she opened the theater door, and the the desire that weaved a vibrant thread throughout, all settled into their hiding places as Ben’s hand wrapped around her own. She could feel his eyes on her and it was akin the brush of lips against her skin as she pretended to focus on the film. Her lips twitched at his words, and she glanced his way, “I did,” she stated matter of factly. She would think about it later, remind herself again of that space that had separated his car, and her front door as he watched her go. She felt his eyes on her then too, as she hurried under the rain to towards he house. She would remind herself later, but for an hour and a half, Layla would lean into him, the warmth of his arm around her, keeping her close as they watched the story unfold before them. 

She’d seen that the director was Jean-Luc Godard, and Layla could remember another one of his films they’d seen, Breathless. She appreciated the way Godard filmed his movies, with the strange cuts, scenes that lasted too long, the random insert of meaningless dialogue and exposition, the way the characters seemed somewhat aimless. It reminded her of real life, made the characters on the screen breath. And she couldn’t help but sympathize with Angéla, and her persistence towards having a child. And Alfred with his gentle coaxing, waiting for her to choose him. When they finally came together, Layla felt a sort of relief despite the lingering betrayal of Emile. Ben pressed a kiss to her head, and the woman tipped her head back to look at him. The lights from the screen played on his features, lighting up the blue of his eyes. She stared at him, but he pretended not to notice.

She had something on the edge of her tongue, though she wasn’t sure what it was. A bizarre feeling that she wanted to say something, that she had something to say, in fact, but that the words weren’t there. Only the feeling of them. But she was distracted as Angéla and Alfred kissed, and the woman glanced towards the screen, and before shifting so that she could press a kiss against Ben’s mouth. She kissed him once, then again, before pulling away. 

Une Femme est Une Femme. A Woman Is a Woman. 

And then the words were there, ready to form on her lips. She knew what she wanted to say, and for a moment she might have, but then the only other people in the theater were suddenly standing. It was an elderly couple who had been sitting near the front, and they Layla pulled away even though they didn’t spare the pair a glance as they shuffled out. Apparently the unfaithful young woman lying half naked in bed with her lover hadn’t been what they came to see. The door closed behind them, and Layla wet her lips. Now they were alone. 

[layla-seward]

ben-raleigh‌:

“Okay,” was all Ben said in response when Layla agreed to their little game of fly on the wall; the smile in his voice was evident as the reporter finally cleared his throat and prepared to ring the bell.

If there was one thing that the church secretary got right, it was that Elis Moss was a good doctor; he was attentive, had gentle hands with an impeccable bedside manner– Ben didn’t get any thoughtful touches though, to which the reporter found amusing. He would point it out to Layla later.

He only needed disinfection and a few stitches, not including the bruises that decorated his face and body, but other than that Ben was good as new. Despite having nothing interesting to talk about during his impromptu medical visit, it brought the reporter a child-like excitement that Layla was listening on the other line that if he really thought about it, it could almost count as her accompanying him. Once Ben was outside of Elis’ apartment, he took the mobile phone out of his pocket.

“Still there? Hope you didn’t hear me crying from the stitches,” he joked.

Layla laid with her eyes closed, lulled by the sound of rain and the men’s muffled voices. She kept one foot on the ground, pushing the swing slowly back and forth, but she was hardly getting sleepy. The redhead listened to every word the two exchanged as a strange titillation kept her on alert. Layla found that she liked being privy to an exchange that was happening at that very moment. She liked that Ben had suggested it, that every word he chose wasn’t only for Elis, but also for her. Attempting to keep her mind off of the reporter’s reveal about her physician’s particular concern, Layla focused in on the procedure at hand, gathering the details of Ben’s injuries with Dr. Moss’ explanation, and treatment. She tried to swallow the uneasiness, reminding herself that he was fine, that the doctor would do his job, but she couldn’t help but want to see for herself. 

When his voice came clearly through the phone, Layla shifted to place it against her ear once more. “Mmm” she hummed, voice soft, and languid, “You know what they say... You are what you eat.” She smiled at her own joke, and opened her eyes. Sitting up, Layla ran a hand through her hair, before letting her head fall against the backrest. A spider sat above her head, a black one the size of a dime, and she stared at it, afraid to look away only to glance back and find it gone. 

“So, what now?” She asked, excitement licking at her bones. No. She reminded herself. But the tone of her voice was enough, that low, almost challenging way she said it. As though she was suggesting he go home, and offering him a possibility at the same time. 

[layla-seward]

cfsinners‌:

layla-seward‌:

To Charity’s defense it never would have taken much to make Layla suspicious; if there was even an inkling of a secret, of something to discover, of something to know the secretary would set upon an inquisition. So, when those big, dark eyes were turned away, and the young woman was not ready with her sharp, cheeky witticism, the ball was dropped in their game of catch. Layla finally turned her body away. Layla knew the facts. She knew that Bill’s mother had left them when he was a boy, that there were rumors about a gardener. The redhead herself was shaking of cold in some decrepit house in Indianapolis as Lisa spent all her income on Percocet and cocaine, but that particular scandal had woven itself into the quilt of the town’s history. It wasn’t something she and Bill discussed. She knew strangers rarely moved to Wheeler– not without a reason, whether it be running or searching. And Layla heard the speculation surrounding Miss Barnes’ middle initial. It was enough. 

“Well that’s a damn shame,” Layla responded, her voice sympathizing, “No one–” The rest of her statement was swallowed as the machine beneath them whined with effort. –should be run out of their home. They were moving upwards again, the clicking of the tracks deafening as her stomach seized into a knot. Their prolonged suspension had only aided in building Layla’s adrenaline. She gripped the bar, shoulders tense as they came to the peak, and the minute they began to drop, she let go, and allowed the cart to control her for those two minutes. 

When they finally pulled to the end, slowing slowing until it stopped, Layla glanced over at Charity. “It was a lovely to meet you, Charity. Not often you can say you were introduced to someone while suspended at 60 degrees seventy feet in the air. The attendant came around and unlocked their bar, free the two women. 

   Whatever the woman thought she knew, Charity was happy to at least be aware that she held a near monopoly on the written information in town. And her birth certificate was tucked tightly in her grasp. For now, she was alright with the gossip, and whatever ounce of proof Layla might have thought she had within her grasp. Because all any of it would ever be is speculation. She could be contented with that, even when she bit her tongue following the sudden drops, the twist and turns that were likely only the first Cid would ever experience with her.    Even if she felt dizzy stepping out of the cart, she pinched her lips upwards and refrained from stumbling or taking anymore than two steps, so that Layla could slip past and disappear before her with just a slight addition, “please, call me Cid.” They weren’t friends, but if she could keep her sister-in-law less of a stranger, then things might not turn out quite as sour. Not that she had ever seemed one, or they had needed introductions from that towering height. They had already known each other’s names, and she was clearly eager to say goodbye additionally when she bid it and turned to go her own way.

END

[layla-seward]

ofpecnies‌:

florence, recognizing the voice and, now, the flame of auburn hair atop the woman’s head, pushed herself up from the ground, brushing off blades of grass from the knees of her jeans. florence’s eyes met layla’s only to look down at the cookie tin, a little smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “how kind of you.” she pulled off the gloves from her hands and reached out, taking the cookie tin.

her heart sank a little bit. what the fuck does any of wheeler care? who had you heard that from, the knitting club? someone got killed and the best thing wheeler can talk about is my busted lip? “what, this thing?” florence pointed to her lip and waved her hand dismissively. “it’s nothing, really.” florence meant it. in the grand scheme of things, it really was nothing. “come on, i’ll make us a pot of coffee and we can enjoy these goodies inside, hm?”

florence placed a gentle hand between layla’s shoulders, guiding her up to the house and inside, closing the door behind them. “it’s been terribly hot outside, hasn’t it?”

Layla watched Florence dismiss her injury, and a slight smile came to her lips as she nodded, accepting it for the woman’s sake. In reality it most certainly wasn’t nothing. These people, whoever they were (because despite their otherworldly presence and the terror they carried in Wheeler they were just people) had decided to claw their way from hell, bringing with them an onslaught of punishment they had no right to dole out. It wasn’t nothing because Florence wasn’t the only one in danger, and what she had received was but a warming, a slap on the wrist. What would come next? 

But she didn’t say anything, and the redhead accepted the invitation instead, with a simple, “I’d like that.” Florence’s hand was warm through the thin cotton of her blouse, and Layla allowed the woman to guide her inside the cool interior of the house. She glanced around, collecting what small details she could about this woman with whom Wheeler was infatuated. She wished the thought hadn’t come, but there it was, a voice booming the question through her head. Had Bill seen these very same details?  

She swallowed the lump in her throat, blue eyes flashing to Florence. “Miss Abernathy, you peg me as a woman far more interesting than on who discusses the weather,” Layla said, an innocent smile playing at her lips. 

[layla-seward]

amiraglenn‌:

Amira could tell from the rattled way Layla stared down at the card in front of her that she’d struck a nerve in her translation. And then there was her question, one the psychic had received plenty of times before, and usually with first time clients. She had a form of scripted answer she always referred back to, one that doubled down on her truly embracing her art all the while leaving an air of mystery about the readings themselves. That answer seemed cheap though now, as she looked across the table to the woman before her. Once upon a time, Amira had readily avoided her, knowing her association with the church and therefore assuming she was an enemy rather than a friend. Which made it all the more odd that now, Amira felt inclined to be as completely honest with her as she could be. 

“The very belief in it is what gives it its power,” she replied after a brief pause. “Almost like I would guess your faith in God, you’ve no proof of his existence. When you call out for him he doesn’t answer in a way that’s tangible, and yet you make a small pilgrimage to get closer with him every Sunday, and use your faith in him to help get you through the bad. It’s your very faith that gives him the power he has in the first place.” Perhaps she was reaching, she hadn’t known how strong Layla’s faith was, especially given the fact she was there, watching her interpret cards than sitting in a church pew. But even if her faith was shaken, that instability was cataclysmic enough that it possibly brought her there in the first place. 

“There are 72 cards between this deck and the one sitting before you,” she added, lifting up the deck in her hands as she did. “Out of all 72, fate, intuition… God, whatever it was, it made you pull this card out of all the others. It was a random act that flowered into something that sits with you, but who or what pushed you into doing so? The same driving force that instead of turning into town, instead made you find my little gravel lane in the woods? The same one that made you pick that card out of all the others? Life is a series of random events, much like the very mutations in our genes that led us to who we are as a species today, like I mentioned earlier. But when you step back to look at the broader picture that those events painted, who is its master?” 

Refocusing her attention back to the deck in her hand, she picked up the next card, flipping it over to reveal one she’d seen not too long ago- in Bill Seward’s last reading. “The Five of Pentacles, upright” [X] she announced, her brows shooting upward, given the apparent meaning of the card’s revisit on her table. Then moving her hand back to the deck she removed the last of the three cards, “The Eight of Cups, upright” [X]. Uncertain if Layla was ready for their translations Amira looked up towards her, waiting for a cue to begin. 

Why was it that when faith was challenged, when someone dared present a different idea that it felt like a personal attack? Was He so close to her heart that any idea that threatened His rule, His divinity, His power, was an adversary? Did Layla truly believe so thoroughly in God that she couldn’t accept anything but the words written in the good book? Hardly. She believed, she really did; she believed that everything she had, the pretty new life with people who cared, and things she wanted were because He had decreed it so. Why else would she make it out of that rigorous system that spit out ill formed young adults that were angry at the world, and what it had offered them? Why would she, the scrawny little ginger with a penchant for knowing more than she should, be the one to find a family? A home? Happiness? She’d left siblings behind. As a thirteen year old girl searching for that answer it was only natural that she find it in something so grand, and all encompassing. It was an unshackling. He could suddenly bare her burden-- one that she was too young to carry. 

It was easy that way, and for a long long time it had worked. She’d been freed through his grace, and strength. But where was he now? And when had she begun to lose sight of him? Was it when this perfect life was no longer such? The mirage had begun to fade, and as Amira suggested, his power waned with her belief. But she wanted so badly for there to be someone to answer to. Someone to shoulder the load. Layla couldn’t do it alone. So she held on with a vice grip, her faith colored with desperation that Layla hid so well. At least she disguised it well at church, here, in this little reading room with the Wheeler’s very own mystic, her mask was hardly in place. She chewed her lip, looking across at the woman with a strange vulnerability, a glimpse at the mess inside. The redhead hadn’t expected to believe a word of whatever bullshit response Amira was going to feed her, but such a reply didn’t come, and Layla found herself accepting the answer with a nod. Those few moments were genuine.

When she turned her gaze back to the cards on the table, and the blinds were shut on the window inside. Blue eyes studied the bleak image of the five pentacles, and chill ran through her. The third next one was revealed, and after a few seconds, she nodded without looking up. She was ready.

[grantaere]

Amy Adams in Nocturnal Animals dir. Tom Ford