stfu-layla:
She’d figured explaining herself after showing up at Noah’s door (with a gun) would be much easier before the time actually came. At the time, she wasn’t exactly thinking about what she was going to say – she just knew she needed to get help from someone she trusted, and, subconsciously, she knew that meant explaining, as well. However, her explanation was coming on slow, perhaps a sentence or two every minute. It wasn’t exactly progressive. Unfortunately, she was well aware of what a poor job she was doing at explaining her current situation. Was she unable to explain it because she still hadn’t fully processed it (or whatever it was that therapists said)? Was it because her vocabulary didn’t reach beyond swears at that point? Was it because she was over-thinking why she couldn’t explain, thus causing a placebo effect and rendering her unable to explain? Whatever it was, she knew she’d have to work through it or turn tail and leave, and she was already too in over her head for the latter. Her chance for an opening – a real opening – spawned off of Noah’s reply to her ever-persistent sentence. “No,” she cut in as he continued speaking. It was a simple response, only one word, but with it was brought a chance to actually say something that had meaning in the context of the situation. “That – that wasn’t the last time I saw her, not since – not since we last talked,” she began, finally on the road to an explanation that didn’t pander in single sentences. However, that point hadn’t quite been reached yet, as she was still hoping he could work with his minimal resources and put two-and-two together before she had to dive in. She’d managed to tell him plenty about herself the night in the alley, but what she was talking about then had been years ago. Although it’d obviously all stuck with her (after all, she still didn’t have a house), she was in a much better state of being then than she was now, standing with her fist clenched tight around the metal of a gun while her knuckles whitened. She was telling, not reliving. Everything that’d happened, everything Layla would have to explain, had all gone down within the past month and a half – the memories were all still as bright as a summer’s day. She could recall every event in vivid detail, could remember her mother’s exact words (they always stuck), could still feel the phantom pain, could still realize where everything was in relation to herself on both a physical and metaphorical plateau if she chose to recall. She knew she’d have to eventually, but she’d damn well gauge how much she needed to say before going in.
He was trying his best to keep his eyes from drifting towards the weapon held tightly in Layla’s hand. It was acting as a distraction from everything else. As much as Noah wanted to say he fully trusted her, there was still a part of him that wanted to tiptoe around her in fear of setting something off. She was still unpredictable to say the least, evidently only looking out for whatever was in her best interest. There was no predicting what she’d done with the gun or what she was planning to use it for, but any outcome couldn’t be very pleasant. It was just the two of them here, and she was the only one of them who possessed a gun and actually knew how to use one. This sounded like the perfect beginning to a perfect horror film. His wild imagination was cut off as she interrupted with a fairly simple answer to his question. A simple answer that came with too many complications. There wasn’t much of a likelihood that she would have run into her mother without the meeting having been planned. From what he knew, it wasn’t like her mom was an active member of society nor had she been a good enough parent for Layla to seek her out. No, it wasn’t just that she hadn’t been good enough. Only from the small amount of details Layla shared with Noah, he could easily conclude that she was barely met the minimum standards of a mom at all. What reason could she have to want to meet her mom? Wasn’t being homeless torturous enough? He was having difficult putting all the pieces together. Layla’s inability to speak properly, a gun, and apparently a recent meeting between mother and daughter. Deep down, however, there was a part of him that knew what all of these things could be adding up to, he just didn’t want to resort to that guess just yet. But where were they supposed to start? He didn’t know what questions to ask; he still wasn’t even entirely aware of what was going on. “What- why? Since when did seeing her become a good idea? You do remember what she did to you, right?” Noah finally looked away from what was held in her hand, looking directly into her eyes as if she were a crazy person (which was partly true). The male was growing a little frustrated, although that wasn’t anything new when it came to conversations between these two. Layla was actually talking in proper sentences at this point, which was a sign of progress. She obviously had no issue with opening up to him, the night at the alley made that evident. All it took was a little bit of coaxing, time, and patience. “Okay, so you saw your mom. What happened?”
