Lucille Maxwell in Layton POV
In my youth I've never dedicated proper attention to sadness, maybe because of my job that never required me such an effort.
I worked as a photographer and all day I had to shoot wonderful landscapes and earn money for a basic life of a young single woman.
The first time I felt a shiver running down my spine was when the boss appointed me to collaborate with the journalist Arthur Layton, from crime news, shooting the broken window of a crime scene. I was so disgusted I felt sick by barely smelling the stench of rotten flesh and hearing flies' dances.
Figure when I've seen the corpse...
From that moment I've remembered death's existence. But I've never thought it could brush against a youngster, after all that corpse was once owned by a middle-aged broken man. Youngsters should be carefree, they deserve all the happiness of this world.
Then why, Hershel?
He's there, trapped in an immobile body that lies on a gurney enveloped in snow white blanket. Only when Roland and Alphonse leave the room, despite the excessive light mirrored by the walls, only then I notice the cuts that cover the arms, the palms and... the throat.
That's true, I'd already seen a corpse, even disembowel, his lap cut by blood forming digits, made by the creditor that wanted to be paid through a sadistic game.
His debt. But these wounds, Hershel's, made by himself, what do they mean? A 17-years-old that should be at school, thinking of the future, maybe some arguments with us... But he owes nothing to no one.
His apathetic smile might makes one think he's just resting. But he's not. He's not the one who is still sleeping after sunrise. He doesn't want to be in anyone's mind. And that's what concerns me.
The guilt due seeing someone plummet, a feeling too heavy to handle, that's the cause of my heart's lacking pulses. But is this really what Helshel'd felt in all these weeks? It's too difficult for me to bear for some hours, but for days and days...
Maybe regret was so heavy that was suffocating in that weak body. Did this gesture give him liberty? When he wakes up and sees the bandages and the machines, will he be the same Hershel we had brought home 13 years ago? Will he do that again? What will his brother think? Will we be able to sa-
Enough. He will not do it again.
We'll help him at any cost.
I can imagine he wants to leave Stansbury like we all, despite Mr Ascot and Angela were so kind, not only preventing our attendance in the funeral or memorial or whatever the hell they call it, but even to disturb themselves to send us a police constable home for taking away Hershel. And for what? For murder! Or rather, the murder, seeing the fact that seems only one person died in this forgotten by God village. They'd tried to question him, without success: he writhed, closed eyes, ears, pressing all his pain. In the end they'd retried, helped by a psychologist, that was answered with nothing but silence. She had confirmed his traumatic mental situation.
I was aware of Hershel's condition, but only now I can fathom what he's gone through, being under a pressure impossible to bear, until he's snapped. Until he's wondered:«Was it really me?». Despite our innumerable no, he can't help but feeling responsible, thinking other impossible possibilities and causality-
I was aware of this, and yet I wasn't. I couldn't realize the matter was this grave. My son needed support, and I wasn't reliable.
How could I have been so blind and insensitive? Am I worthy as a mother? And when he wakes up, will he tell me he hates me?
No, he will not, sadly: he hates everyone but himself. But why? Maybe for not avoiding the others, for not drawing attention. For hiding his disgust and self-hatred.
Then a mother ought to wish to be hated by her own son rather than leaving the youngster rotting inside.
My mere hope is that everything will be back to normal as soon as possible.
In the silence that follows I hear faster sounds, breath now in a wakefulness pace. From the corners of the eyes I can see supine eyelids that let the light enter. Despite my eyesight is foggy and not focused to anything, I notice Hershel is turning his head, trying to inspect the room and deduce the course of events. He's like his father: I remember he too inspected every corner, even the most trivial, in order to solve those terrible homicides.
He turns to me. He doesn't look happy, or there wouldn't be all those wrinkles and skin would be spread homogeneously. At my sight, he stiffens, distancing. I take his hand laying on the mattress, almost as if he forgot its existence, and I caress it gently. Then I kiss it and I cover it with mine, warmer. Then Hershel relaxes and let me do, releasing steaming tears.
«Mum―» sobs choke him and I rub his back in order to give him ease. «Forgive me... I've made a mess... it's all my fault...»
I just console that poor soul, cruel drops gush from my eyes. «Everything will be alright, Hershel.» With the index finger I rise his chin firstly passive, his gaze watered.. «We will solve this story. Together.»
Mutually we embrace ourselves, me keeping attention to his wounds. I sense his head on my right shoulder, his breathes speeded by sobs, his beat leaded by the original panic. Despite the tears, bandages and the docs that just entered in the room, I can't help but smile to the life. Hershel is here, among us.
«Mistress Layton, if I could.» Meds intervene and loosen the embrace with no problems. «We must check up patient's conditions.» Not protesting, I nod and leave the room, not without a grin to the son I never could have.
I sit on one of the many plastic and uncomfortable chairs, but I don't pay much attention to it, as I did this morning after all. I see all the meds and nurses run through the many rooms, puppets owned by Time, threatened by death. Doctors leave from the 289 room. They inform me of his stable condition in hurried fashion. Then, abandoned by his colleagues, the only one left adds the patient is resting and suggests it would better not to put him in too much pressure, so one person per time maximum. I don't make in time to ask anything that he vanishes. Really fast, the lad. A gurney passes in front of me, the laid woman covered in blood and bruises, and it enters through the same door, the one that in the last 5 minutes just can't stop creaking. I hope that woman will survive. Before I can spend my little energy to my thoughts, in the hallway I hear familiar voices, among them a deep but warm one, love's voice. Without losing an instant, I stand up and approach them. It's Roland, Alphonse and... Angela? My face is darker due the latter's presence, but looking hard I note the the no more candid sclera of the only visible eye, the other one assaulted by curls, purplish cheeks, bit lips and a nose that doesn't quit running. I've never seen that girl so upset. She doesn't dare to cross my eyesight, with an ashamed fashion, hugging herself with those skinny arms...
Roland surpasses me even with words: immediately he explains that Angela wants to bid her apologies, both to me and Hershel. At his mention, she just nods frantically.
«Forgive me for what happened, mistress Layton.» she doesn't direct the gaze, but formalities. She bows a little, curving her back.
Normally, I can be so barefaced to tell her the classical set phrases like «No need to be sorry» or simply let my hands do the talking. But actually, despite what she caused claiming Hershel as a murderer, I just can't punish her. Rather, I don't have the right. Besides the fact that she's not my daughter, I can't judge her as a person. She'd lost her lover in such a young age as adolescence, maybe the most important moment of life for growing psychologically. But anyway mourning isn't a simple weight to lift on one's shoulders. And more than that she already has one, for 8 years by now. How can I judge her? I can't imagine what I would have done if the one to die had been Roland... Better not thinking about it.
So, for breaking the ice, I hug her. Firstly rigid and motionless, a quake blows her, the diaphragm under unbearable efforts and sobs not so difficult to hear, my t-shirt wet. Even the two men, even if their physique doesn't make one think it, are touched and join to the grasp. And we stay there, in a corner of a hallway that, despite the traffic made by doctors, time is suspended.
«We all forgive you.»
