reed
. . .
Five Months later
Five months.
That’s how long it’s been since she showed up at my door, broken, bruised, and shaking so hard I thought she’d splinter on my porch. Five months since she whispered my name like it was the last safe thing she knew.
Now she’s here, withme.
Layla has made this place feel alive again, has made me feel alive again. She’s barefoot most of the time, wrapped in one of my shirts, editing videos at the table with a cup of coffee with more ice than the actual drink, but I love her for it.
She still makes content, but it’s no longer the glossy, filtered kind.
It’sreal.
She speaks about healing, leaving, and starting over when the world says it’s too late. She uses her voice for something meaningful; to reach women and men who have been in her place, telling them it’s okay to begin again.
Her following doubled. Shit, maybe tripled.
She doesn’t even seem to notice anymore. She used tobe so worried about her followers, her content, how she looked, whether they’d like her without Brian.
Every time I watch her record, I see the strength it takes for her to say the words out loud.
The slight tremor in her hands before she presses record. The calm that washes over her when she finishes.
I’m so fucking proud of her.
Brian’s in jail now, good, that’s what he deserves.
He has been since that night at my house, when he pounded on my door.
The cops made sure the charges stuck—assault, trespassing, domestic violence. He’s got time to think about what he did.
But if he ever shows his face in Ruby Ridge again, it won’t be the law he’ll answer to; he’ll answer to me again, and I’ll fucking break him to keep her safe.
She’s safe now, and I’ll make damn sure it stays that way.
Still, the nightmares come.
She’ll wake in the middle of the night, trembling, her breath caught in her throat.
Sometimes she doesn’t even realize she’s crying until I wipe away her tears. I’ll pull her close, press my lips to her hair, whispering gentle words until her heartbeat slows.
She always apologizes for it, and I always tell her the same thing. “You don’t have to be okay all the time to be safe.”
And the truth is, I get it, I understand it more than she knows. This ache I’ve dealt with for years comes back to haunt me, too.
Because I still wake up some nights, too. Not because of her screams, but because of my own.
Beau’s voice still rings in my mind, the moment he stopped talking, the hiss of gas, the flash that took him.
My brother in the firehouse, my best friend.
I survived. He didn’t. And some nights I still hate myself for it.
I’ll catch my reflection in the mirror, the scars that crawl up my neck, the twisted ones on my shoulder, and all I can think ismonster.
