But Layla’s death wasn’t the important thing—it was inevitable. It is her life that will be told—must be told.
There was something about Layla that touched everyone. It didn’t matter what race or religion they were. It didn’t matter where they lived or what kind of car they drove. Layla had a gift, something that few people possess: she had the power to be, the power to see, the power to give and inspire. Being in her presence made people lose themselves a little bit: they couldn’t talk to her too long without feeling a certain tightness in their chest, a sort of breathlessness that was unique and pleasant.
People—men and women—found yourself fascinated by the way her hands moved when she spoke, or the way her dark eyes flickered everywhere at once, absorbing everything. The light that touched the dark skin of her neck and cheek seemed to glow with warmth and cling to her, as though it never wanted to let go. Suddenly, every single person in the room was hanging onto her every word, taking in the way a small line would form on her forehead when she was deep in thought, the way she’d bite her lower lip or suddenly smile so brightly, or the way her mouth and eyes tightened when she was angry or sad.
Captivating.
Layla had trouble shutting her mouth, knowing when an argument was too small to pursue or when the price was too high. Sometimes she overreacted and got angry. She thought about things other didn’t—when she saw someone on the street she’d often speculate about them: were they happy? She hoped so, she hoped that they had all the joy life could give them. What was their story? What were their struggles? She wanted to know, and she wanted to help them heal. Every single person has a story, she’d often say. Every single person has a grievance, a secret place in themselves where they can be alone and think about all that has happened to them.
She’d been hurt, badly. When she’d healed from that hurt, she’d bent her will towards helping others heal their own hurt. Layla never believed that she really could help, but everyone else around her knew that even her presence was soothing. She was like a flowing river—someone could take a dip and come out feeling cleaner, purified, stronger. Children would spot her in a train or in a crowded room and come towards her, wanting to talk or play or just stare.
They weren’t staring at Layla’s physical self. She wasn’t a beautiful woman, though she wasn’t ugly by any means. Her hair was dark and long, falling straight halfway down her back. Her jaw had a hint of square-ness to it, and she held herself like a fighter—always ready to move suddenly in any direction. There was grace in the way she held herself in stillness and in movement, and at the sight of her one’s heart might start moving faster and one would feel that tightness of the chest, as though they too were ready to run.
Most heroes have heroes of their own. Layla didn’t. So many people admired and respected her—considered her their role model. But the one time she’d been asked who she admired, who her role model was, she’d had no answer. “The thing about role models is that they can disappoint so easily.” She’d told the woman who’d asked her.
“You admire someone and you respect them, and being around them makes you want to be a better person. But then you find out that maybe they aren’t that amazing, maybe they’re really just another person with regrets and crushed dreams and maybe even a few dreams that they’d crushed for others.” She’d shrugged and given the woman a sad smile.
“I’ll be my own hero. I’ll imagine someone I’d love to meet, someone I’d love to be friends with. Someone kind and funny, who can be serious but knows how to have a good time. Someone smart who you can confide in and know that they’ll never judge you. Someone I could trust. And then I’ll become that person—I’ll work to make myself kinder, I’ll work on learning how to forgive even when you can’t forget, I’ll correct myself every time I start to judge someone before really knowing them. But of course, I could never be someone’s hero, either. I’d disappoint them, in the end. After all, I’m only human: I have regrets, I’ve hurt others, and I’ve been hurt. That’s not someone’s idea of a hero.”
And yet she was.
Every time she was in the room with someone, Layla made them feel like they were bathing in silver light. After she died, those who had known her thought of her often. And then they’d feel that odd, pleasantly breathless feeling in their chest again. But this story starts far before this, in a preschool classroom.
Hi, everyone! Thanks for reading, and hopefully commenting
This is a story idea I suddenly came up with and just had to write down, and I'd LOVE any feedback--feel free to tear this to pieces. --Caitlin
