CHIMERA

“I worked so hard on this writing,” says Layla, pacing up and down the living room, tightly gripping the type-written papers in her hands.

“Only to be rejected by six different agencies!”

She pauses, looking down at the now crumpled papers. The writing stares back at her, as if it’s scrutinising her. She looks up, meeting her sister’s heavy-lidded eyes, who is sitting on the red velvet armchair in the dark corner of the living room.

“I don’t know why I even try,” Layla mutters, putting the papers on the coffee table then plopping herself on the couch.

Banshee, Layla’s four year old black cat with white paws, jumps on her lap, purring softly as Layla runs her black, long nails through her fur.

“It took me three years to write it, Lydia. Three years! I sacrificed my social life, my other hobbies, and my job to work on it!”

“My boss is on the verge of firing me, I don’t have friends anymore, and my passion for art and music has completely vanished. All of this ruined because I lost myself in a single piece of writing—a waste of a project that no longer matters!”

Layla stands and grabs her car keys, meeting Lydia’s dark, dull eyes as she strides past her, exiting her small apartment.

She lights a cigarette as her Mazda MX-5 NB warms up, then rolls down the window and pulls out of the apartment complex, the car rattling slightly over the cracks in the pavement.

Dark clouds hover over the city like protective shields, though the residents find little comfort in them. The past couple of months have been dull; the sun has barely made an appearance.

Layla almost trips over her own feet as she hops out of the car and scurries into the office building. A few coworkers glance at her with furrowed brows as she strides past. Her short dyed black hair and micro bangs are frizzed out in all directions, making her look like a mad scientist, and mascara is smudged under her eyes from constant rubbing.

Daryl, her boss—a forty two year old bald man and one of the most patient people alive—looks up from his computer as Layla bursts into his office, not bothering to knock on the open door.

“Layla?” he says, his lips slightly parted, his brows drawn together.

Layla is used to that look. She can’t remember the last time someone smiled at her.

“What brings you here? You’re supposed to be on leave.”

“I’ve been on leave for two months, Daryl.”

Daryl nods slowly. “Yes, for a reason. I said you can come back when you’re ready. Are you ready?”

Layla opens her to mouth to respond, but only a tiny croak comes out.

Daryl sighs, shifting on his chair. “Look, Layla, there is no rush. You’re grieving, and—”

“I’m not grieving!” she blurts, immediately clamping her mouth shut. She clears her throat, glancing at Daryl who continues to stare at her with furrowed brows. “I’ve been busy trying to find agencies to publish my book for the past two months.”

“That too, I’m aware. But that’s not why you took leave, Lay.”

“It is.”

“That’s not what we agreed on.”

“Well I lied to you, boss. I was selfish and wanted to focus on getting my novel out there, which… didn’t work out. I’m ready to work again.”

Daryl inhales, narrowing his eyes. “Very well. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

***

“I’m going to feel like an outsider again going back to work,” Layla says, sipping her black coffee.

Lydia stares at her, smiling solemnly.

“You should’ve seen everyone’s faces when I walked in there yesterday.”

Approaching the armchair, Layla furrows her brows in a dramatic squint, circling a hand around her face like a spotlight.

“It’s always this look. Everyone is always frowning at me!”

Layla pauses, her expression softening into a smile. “You don’t frown at me though.”

She glances at the clock, sculls her coffee, then grabs her handmade black tote bag covered in patches of plants. “I need to head off now. I’ll see you after work! I’m looking forward to watching a movie with you when I get back.”

As Layla enters her workplace, no one spares a glance at her. She settles back at her desk — it looks the same as the last time she worked. All her belongings are still on the table, but the one difference is that it’s been wiped clean for her.

Her eyes lock on one of the small picture frames to the right of her computer, the four pairs of eyes staring back at her brightly. Her surroundings become awfully quiet, a deafening ringing filling her ears. Her throat tightens, and she finds herself struggling to swallow. Her heart feels as though it’s being squeezed, yet she can feel it thump loudly against her chest.

A hand gently grips her shoulder, making her let out a blood-curdling scream. Daryl quickly withdraws his hand, his mouth agape.

Layla turns to him, tears running down her pale face. Her chest heaves rapidly as she gasps for air.

“Layla, are you okay?” Daryl asks. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Layla clutches her chest and briefly glances back at the photograph.

“I’m… I’m fine.” She looks around the office; every coworker is staring at her with either a blank expression or a frown. “I’m sorry for the ruckus, everyone!” She says rather enthusiastically, laughing.

Daryl scans her. “Layla, would you mind coming into my office to talk?”

Layla nods, following him, ignoring the heat of everyone’s stares and whispers.

Daryl quietly shuts the door. “Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk.

Layla slowly sits down, slightly moving the chair away from his desk. She watches as he sits down, analysing his movements: he folds his arms over the desk, and his back slightly slouches.

“Layla, why did you come back to work?”

Layla blinks. “Because I’m ready,” she mutters.

“No, you’re not.”

Layla frowns. “Excuse me? I think I know if I’m ready to work or not.”

“You may think you are, but another part of your brain is still not ready emotionally.” Daryl shifts, straightening his back and clearing his throat. “Your siste—”

“Don’t you dare…” Layla whispers sharply.

“Your sister’s death is still fresh. Everyone grieves differently, but—”

“I am fine!” Layla hisses. “I am ready to work again.”

“Layla… I’ve heard from a few publishing agencies. They say you’re seeing things… that you’re seeing Lydia.”

Layla lets out a ragged breath, deeply digging her fingers into her thighs. Her skin throbs, but the sudden ringing in her ears drowns out the pain.

“I’m not seeing things,” she mutters through her teeth.

“Seeing a loved one after they pass is a symptom of grieving. We’re not here to judge you, Lay. It’s out of concern. We just want to make sure you’re looking after yourself and not causing any trouble to yourself or others around you.”

“I don’t see anyone. I don’t have any friends anymore, and I live at home with my cat. That sounds like a calm life kept to myself, right?”

“And your sister?”

Layla clenches her jaw, grinding her teeth harshly together. “No.”

“You told the publishing agencies that you and your sister watch a movie every night together, and have small chats in the morning.”

Layla blinks rapidly, her left eye slightly twitching. Her fingers dig deeper into her skin.

“No.”

Daryl sighs. “I want you to take more time off. Perhaps a couple more weeks? I will check up on you in two weeks time.”

Layla stands without a word. She turns and walks out of the room, small specks of blood dripping slowly down her legs. Her eyes are fixed ahead, the ringing in her ears still persistent as a hazy blur surrounds her.

***

“Oh hello, Daryl!” Layla exclaims, smiling widely at him.

Daryl is dressed in grey tracksuit pants, a grey jumper, and a black beanie, rather than his usual baggy suit.

“What a lovely surprise!”

Daryl forces a sweet, warm smile.

“Hello, Layla. I’m sorry to turn up at your house unexpectedly. Especially on a Sunday morning.”

“That’s okay! What brings you here?” Her smile doesn’t falter.

Daryl discreetly inspects her. Her hazel eyes and skin are bright, her hair is brushed and neat, and she’s wearing a loose, black patterned bell sleeve dress.

“I contacted you to check in five days ago and didn’t get a response. I grew quite worried, so I thought I ought to come by in person instead.”

Layla’s smile falters for a brief second. “Oh, my apologies. My phone is broken. I accidentally dropped it last week and I can no longer type on it. Stupid Nokia.”

Daryl raises his eyebrows slightly. “Ah, okay.” He nods. “I can take it to the local shop to get it fixed if you want?”

Layla pouts. “Oh, you’re too kind! That’s okay. I’ll just buy a new one tomorrow. I haven’t bothered sooner since I don’t really have much need for it.”

Daryl flattens his lips and nods. Layla stares at him with the same pout, then straightens up, smiling brightly again. “Do you want to come in?”

Daryl opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks down at his watch. “Oh, I should get going. I was just popping by to see if you’re okay.”

Layla frowns. “I would really like company. I am in need of it.”

Daryl scans her face. “Okay. Just for a short bit.”

As he steps inside, his nostrils are hit with the scent of incense. His eyes trail around her apartment—it is surprisingly clean. He jumps as Layla appears behind him, asking enthusiastically, “Would you like some coffee?”

“That would be lovely, thank you.”

“Great! Have a seat,” she says, gesturing to the couch before walking into the kitchen.

Daryl sits down, casting glances between her and her small living space. His eyes lock on a cluster of picture frames above the fireplace. Most are photographs of Layla with her parents or her cat, but one features an anonymous figure whose face has been violently scribbled out.

The scratches on the photo are deep and thick, as if it’s been defaced repeatedly over time.

On the coffee table in front of him lies a Nokia phone. It doesn’t have a single flaw; it looks entirely pristine.

“How are you, Layla?” Daryl asks, looking over at her.

Her back is turned to him. She stops pouring the coffee, freezing mid motion over the mug. Daryl shifts uncomfortably on the couch.

“Layla, are you okay?”

As if pulled by an invisible string, she straightens and looks up, turning to him with the mug in her hand and a bright smile. “Would you like milk?”

Daryl frowns. “I’m okay, thank you.”

She walks over and places it on the coffee table in front of him before taking a seat on the red velvet armchair next to the couch.

“How are you?” Daryl repeats.

Layla’s smile vanishes “Are you here to pester me, be my boss, or my friend?”

“Your friend.”

“Well, I am asking you as a friend to quit asking me that question.”

“Okay.” Daryl takes a sip of the coffee, wincing slightly as it burns his tongue. “May I ask… who is the person scribbled out in the photographs?”

Layla looks towards the corner of the living room. Daryl notices, but before he can open his mouth, she snaps her gaze back to him, her face downward.

“Is the coffee too hot?” she asks.

“A little, but I prefer it this way.”

A deafening silence fills the room. Daryl looks at the corner where Layla had been gazing. It is bare and dark. When his eyes snap back to Layla, she is already staring at him. His heart strikes against his chest.

“Is that where Lydia is, Layla?” he asks, pointing to the empty corner.

Layla continues to stare at him blankly, her left leg bouncing restlessly.

“I’m not judging you,” Daryl adds softly. “I’m just asking out of curiosity.”

Layla is silent for a moment, then looks at the corner. Her leg stops bouncing, and her posture slightly sags.

“There’s no one there,” she says quietly. She turns back to him with glassy eyes, her bottom lip slightly quivering. “She is no longer here.”

“No longer here?” Daryl asks. “Lydia was here?”

“Yes. Was. For two months.”

“Do you not see her anymore?”

“I never left, Daryl.”

The colour drains from Daryl’s cheeks.

“I kept Layla company every morning and night while she grieved over my death. Then as soon as she killed herself, I took over her body.”

Daryl’s blood runs cold as he freezes on the couch, staring at her. He can feel his heart thumping in his ears.

“Lydia?”

Lydia smiles slowly.

“I’m ready to work again, Daryl. In honor of my beautiful sister.”