Outcome
"Ma, I've told you before there is no place for me there," Hershel Layton says as his mother kisses his forehead and places the day's clothing at the foot of his bed. He eyes the suit she's laid out for him reproachfully.
"Come on, now," Lucille Layton tuts softly as she pulls back the old, worn covers and ushers her son out of bed.
"But Ma, you wouldn't understand..."
Tired and worn, the older woman sighs. He can't help but feel guilty for the deep circles beneath her eyes and the hollowness in her cheeks. The last few weeks had been torture. She'd spent many a night by his side, rubbing his back after the nightmares and telling him that it would all turn out alright.
"Not another word Hershel. You're a friend going to pay respects to another friend. There is nothing more and nothing for you to feel guilty about."
Hershel couldn't help but feel different.
He'd always been so quiet, so gentle, so loving. The perfect angel of a child, never speaking unless spoken to, honest and responsible enough to be left on his own.
He was the complete opposite now, unrecognizable. For how could he be considered a gentleman now, with Randall's blood on his hands?
He tries again to tell her he cannot go, that it would be wrong. He knows he doesn't have the courage to face them.
Angela...Mr. Ascot...
He was too tired to apologize anymore.
"Hershel, you must get going! Your friends are waiting for you. Come on, up you go. I know this is tough, honey, but you won't feel right until you say goodbye. It's going to take a while to stop hurting."
He feels like an hourglass with one side practically full, needing soon to be tipped over and reset. He couldn't remember the last time he'd wished so desperately for death.
She's pretending that nothing has happened as she helps to dress him in his Father's old suit. As sh begins to re-tie the black tie around his neck, he finally finds the courage to say it. On the tip of his tongue it rests, the thought that had been on his mind since the moment Randall's fingers had slipped through his grasp.
"Ma," he says quietly, eyes on the floor, "Ma, why couldn't it have been me?"
"Hershel?" He feels her fingers halt as she pauses mid-knot.
"I should've been the one to die."
At first she only stares. He feels her eyes on him and slowly looks up, catching her gaze. And then he feels it, her palm connecting with his cheek so hard and so fast that he has no time to prepare or respond. He tries to reply, to say something and ask why, but she cuts him off. Her voice is angry, angrier than he's ever heard it before.
She grabs his wrist and pulls him closer to her. She's strong, stronger than he'd expected with her age and build. He's never seen this side before and like a disobedient dog he cowers beneath her frightening gaze, metaphorical tail between his legs.
In one quick motion she takes his cheeks in her hands and her grip is so tight. His cheeks sting.
"Hershel Layton," she says, her tone sharp, "don't you dare ever say that again. Never ever again, do you hear me?"
He tries to nod, but the tears are streaming now and he's so overwhelmed by the mess of emotions and the thoughts and feelings in his heart and his head. He wants nothing more than his body to go numb for a while until he's strong enough to deal with it.
"I'm sorry," he whimpers as she shuts his eyes tight, "I'm so sorry, Ma!"
It takes only a moment for Lucille to grasp the situation. Her face softens quickly and she releases him momentarily, before wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him to her.
He buries his face in her shoulder and sobs.
"Hershel, this is not your fault," she whispers, but he's not listening.