And Say It Was All in Vain

By Maria Chappel

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469159324

Maria Chappel

Maria Chappel was raised in Weiser Idaho for 35 years of her life and still resides in Idaho with her husband Steve and their seven children. She enjoys writing as it is her passion, and her husband encouraged her to follow her dream of writing a book so she followed it. She was a Sheriff’s deputy for Eleven years and also worked as a reserve police officer in the city of Weiser as well, but now stays home to write and spend time with her family.

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AND SAY IT WAS ALL IN VAIN

BY MARIA CHAPPEL

Copyright © 2012 by Maria Chappel.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2012902299

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4691-5931-7

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4691-5930-0

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4691-5932-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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CONTENTS

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

For Steve…the love of my life

Who has believed in me since day one….

ONE

She leaned on the railing of her old porch, smoking her cigarette. The day had been long, and she was tired of everybody’s shit. Layla was not doing anymore tonight. She took a drag, inhaling her cigarette and closing her eyes, savoring the flavor of it. She had been smoking since she was fourteen; it started out as curiosity but then became a nasty nagging habit. She would sneak her mother’s cigarettes here and there for her neighborhood friends just to impress them. They were the bad kids as her mother had said and warned her to stay away from them. Yeah, they were the bad influence in her life. Whatever.

Layla noticed the neighbor across the street pulling in the drive and getting out of her car. She couldn’t stand that woman whatsoever. She was stuck-up and thought she was better than everybody else, and that type of person just drove Layla crazy. Nobody was better than anybody no matter how much money they had or if they had one tooth in their head or a perfect set of expensive pearly whites. She hated snotty people, and this was something that was ingrained in her from her mother, but was something that came to her pretty naturally anyway and she had no problem showing it.

She remembered when her mother had a yard sale once and that thing from across the street came over snooping, being rude and just pissing them off. Her mother actually told her to leave her yard in so many words, and she walked off in a huff like a pissed-off hen. To hell with that bitch and the one next door to her; they were separated at birth those two uppity hussy snots. They were nailing everybody but their husbands; Layla saw it with her own eyes more than once. Their husbands pull out to go to work, and some guy sneaking, walking over, and going in the front door. She was not a moron and knew that they were cheating on their other halves every chance they got.

They each had at least three kids, and those poor little things were modeled to be just like them. Such a shame.

Layla literally hated almost everybody, a little trick taught to her by mother as well. Her mother was the nastiest, meanest bitch to ever have existed—she just knew it. Salesmen literally ran off her porch most times, and church women left either in tears or so outraged that they just stood there with their mouths hanging open after they dropped their book of bullshit out of shock. Her mother had quite the colorful way of speaking—to say the least. She wrote the book on filthy words and how to mesh them together to offend the hardest of ears.

She thought of the famous rantings of her mother as she watched the neighbor lady grab a few bags from the back of her car and shake her ass into the house. Bitch, Layla said in a low voice; she’d like to fix her and good. She flat couldn’t stand her. If she showed up on their doorstep one more damn time nosing around, that’s what was going to happen to her. Layla was not a typical person by any means of putting up with anybody’s bullshit whatsoever. That’s why she ended up in the principal’s office more times in the history of the school for just about every rule breaking you could think of. From wearing inappropriate clothing to cussing at teachers telling them to suck it, she made it clear she didn’t care about anything or anyone, although she was a straight A student, and that’s the only reason she wasn’t kicked out. The teachers saw her as a tortured artist that just was going through the terrible twos at fifteen. They were dumb shits; they had Manson in their school, and they didn’t even know it. Layla had a circle of friends that would do anything for her whenever she wanted. Was it because they feared her? Maybe. A lot of boys really liked her, although most of them did it in secret because they were scared to death of her. She could throw the look of death at any moment—that kept them off her. Her long black hair and dark eyes were amazing with her Indian features, and it drove the boys c-r-a-z-y, but they stayed the hell out of her way.

Layla was no lady. She was her own person—even her tyrant mother knew when not to push her too far or it would get really ugly really fast. Layla punching her mother right in the nose had happened more than once.

Layla took the last drag from her cigarette and flicked it out into the yard. The house was quiet now, it wasn’t earlier. She took solace in the fact that she did the best she could in the position she was in. Her life was very different from every other teenager’s life in the town and more than likely anywhere.

Layla walked back into the house taking a deep breath, praying her mother had passed out after her drink and joint. That’s generally how she ended her nights after driving Layla and her sister crazy. Sheri couldn’t stand her mother, and for a thirteen-year-old, she was way too smart for her own good. It had to come from her father because she certainly never got it from her mother. Lola, their mother, came from a horrible childhood and had no business having children herself. Thank God, she had to have a hysterectomy after Sheri was born due to a precancerous spot found in her uterus. Otherwise, there would have been more children for her to screw up with no doubt. Lola was a drug-using drunk since Layla could remember. Sheri was born way too premature and almost didn’t make it. The town was small and people talked; they knew what happened before you did. Saying Lola came from the wrong side of the tracks was a complete understatement. It was the typical cliques, of course. You had your geeks, stoner partygoers, goth, religious, and then Layla. She didn’t fit any of their classes. Evil had its own spot indeed.

She had seen way too much, for as old as she was, most adults couldn’t recall seeing or being a part of anything she ever had and that was factual. She wished her life could be different, and maybe she could be a better person, but that just wasn’t in the cards for this girl.

Layla quietly entered the house to find her cat Loco sitting on the kitchen table, staring at her.

She shooed him off and stood in the kitchen listening. All was very quiet; Sheri had gone to stay the night with a friend, so she had missed the whole thing, thank God, because she had seen enough of them. Layla and her mother had gone through another night of her mother mixing pills and alcohol and doing extremely strange things. She had made about five pots of coffee and gulped them all down among them and then throwing them up. She took at least three showers and half put makeup and got right back in again, making her mascara run all over her face, making her a very scary sight. Layla had to keep her from going outside in her towel and that consisted of holding her down and threatening to tie her up. Her mother broke nearly everything she touched including her grandmother’s china dish that she cherished, and when she came to, she was going to be very upset. Layla got so damned tired of her self-medicating and drinking—she threatened to call the cops on her to put a mental hold on her and haul her off but never did. She just couldn’t do it. It would upset Sheri way too much; their fights were enough. Sheri had been standing close enough to actually get blood on her when Lola broke Layla’s nose once, and they thought she would never recover. For months after, if either one of them even raised their voices, she would start crying and beg them to stop fighting, making them both feel like crap. That stopped them from fighting a lot, but not all the way of course; they were who they were. Twins.

She was surprised nobody ever called the damn cops on them with all the screaming they did at each other. Layla didn’t have a typical relationship with her mother more so than normal.

Layla grabbed a Pepsi from the fridge and turned off the kitchen light and headed for her room. It was 3:00 a.m., record time really for her mother to quiet down. Before Layla had gone out to smoke, her mother had fallen asleep in her own bed for once and not the floor or couch. She slowly crept upstairs and stopped just in time to remember to miss the creaking step and listened. Nothing. Thank God. She crept slowly up the rest of the winding staircase and to her mother’s room down the hall. She saw no light under the door and put her ear to the door and heard nothing. A feeling of relief came over her that her mother had fallen asleep the right way tonight. She sobered her up the best she could before she put her to bed, one of the best ones she had pulled off so far.

It’s hard to sober someone up that is that screwed up, but then again, the incident started earlier in the day so she had time. She made sure Sheri didn’t change her mind and come home from her friend’s house; she was better off there. Sheri had night terrors and her friend’s mother was aware, but as long as Sheri wasn’t home, they didn’t happen. Imagine that.

The house they lived in was very old, from around 1895, so it had all the old bells and whistles to go with it.

It was known to be haunted as well, but the only entity in this house was her mother, and she was a bad one. Layla had things moved around on her as well as Sheri, and they both heard noises that scared the daylights out of them, but there was nothing they could do. Her mother had been willed the house when her mother died, so it was bought and paid for, so you know her mother wasn’t going anywhere. Layla wanted to stick her in the loony bin at times—her mother was driving her crazy. Her mother’s friends would check on her when the girls were at school and come when called, but it embarrassed Layla to death. She just couldn’t believe it had to be her and Sheri that were born to this woman. She didn’t know her dad at all or even who he was for that matter. He had left right after Sheri was born, but she didn’t know why.

Poor guy more than likely was running for his life from her mother.

Layla decided a short shower would do her some good. She went into her room and closed the door.

A bathroom adjoined to her and Sheri’s rooms right smack in the middle that made it nice. They had their own little world in their rooms. Decorated with things from Rob Zombie to Marilyn Monroe, they both had various tastes—oh, and not to forget, Mr. Bob Marley himself. Their aunt was their inspiration in life to teach them the true tastes of life; their mother was too far in toxic land to teach them anything. In fact, their aunt helped raise them pretty much their whole lives; the grandmother passed away when Layla was ten. She had stepped in here and there, but Lola made her so angry she couldn’t be around her. They had lived in this house their whole lives because Lola couldn’t provide for Layla and Sheri at all; her habits came first always.

Thank God for Aunt Jolene or who knew where they would be today, more than likely in foster homes.

The water felt amazing and soothed Layla’s cares away for now as long as her mother stayed down peacefully for the night. It was always her fear she would sneak away when Layla wasn’t watching and get hit by a car or, even worse, a train as they only lived two blocks from the tracks. That thought made Layla sick; how would she take care of Sheri? Bad thoughts ran through her mind all the time, and she was so stressed out; no wonder she couldn’t quit smoking cigarettes and pot or quit drinking. She had stashes of booze in her room just in case she needed them, which was a regular occurrence for a very long time.

Layla finished showering and stepped out, wrapping the towel around her. She wiped the steam from the mirror and looked at the matching luggage under her already dark eyes. She would either die from stress or drink herself to death, one or the two, she just knew it. She stood there feeling low and worthless as a human being. It was time for a release.

Layla got dressed and combed her hair and got into her relief stash tin under her bed. In it was her kit for stress relief. It consisted of her pot and such and her blade. Layla was a cutter. It was her way of getting rid of the poison as she called it; she actually believed that she didn’t have blood like normal people in a weird way. She felt beneath everyone else and, in fact, knew she was to a point and this drove her crazy.

She sat Indian style on her floor and was ready to rock.

Layla loaded her pot pipe and lit up. She took a long hit and held that precious breath of Mary Jane.

Within seconds, her chest loosened up and the knot in her stomach released. She set the pipe down and carefully took her razor blade from its small baggie, almost with excitement and anticipation.

She was right-handed so her left arm was the target for her. She slowly and carefully pushed down on the blade, feeling the pleasure pain of the slit on her arm. She went about an inch or so and stopped, watching the blood rise to the crevasse she had created with the blade. She felt a little better now, but it wasn’t enough.

She made two smaller incisions that were a hair or two deeper. It felt better going a little deeper, but of course, there was more blood. She had a ready first aid cover-up kit of tissues and Band-Aids ready and waiting. She let it bleed for a few moments. She sat almost in a trance admiring her work. She knew it wasn’t normal, and her friends hated it when she did it, but they knew she wouldn’t stop until all the pain was out.

That could be forever and that was a sad-assed fact. She would do what it took to make the pain stop; she had to get it out or she would burst. Layla patched herself up and continued to get high, sitting, thinking about things. If she could, she would run away forever, but Sheri had to finish school here; that had to happen. She was a very sensitive and frail girl. Sheri looked much like Layla, but her eyes were literally almost black; her aunt said it was because of all the drugs her mother did when she was pregnant with her. Who knew? They didn’t know their dad, and his eyes could have been that color.

Layla finished and put her stash back, making sure she didn’t burn the house down. She had all sorts of friends that hooked her up with whatever she wanted, so her pot supply never ended.

Her mother didn’t like some of her friends, but she didn’t care whatsoever. She was so wrapped up in her own pills and booze, she needed to stay out of Layla’s business for her daughter’s sanity. Layla was named for the Clapton classic, of course, and Sheri for the Four Season’s Sheri because if there was one other thing her mother was passionate about—aside from the pills and booze—it was music. Layla liked her name and where it came from; at least her mother had some taste aside from her bad habits that made their lives hell.

Layla sat on the floor stoned and sliced just like she liked it. She felt released and numb just like she liked it too and the best part? That bitch was asleep and not up wreaking havoc on the house and scaring Jane or making Layla crazy mad. Layla often wondered what it would be to have a normal life with a mom that wasn’t a drunk-ass pill head and a father in the picture to boot. She often wondered what it would really be like, and it made her so mad that she would never ever have that in her life ever. She thought she was born under a bad sign and its name was Lola.

Sheri herself did the best she could, although she had been put on nerve pills after a spell she went through with anxiety. Poor Sheri—Layla’s heart ached for her poor sister.

Layla rose up and checked her mother once more and decided to Bob Marley herself to sleep. She put a CD on real low and got under her covers, praying that tomorrow held a better package for them all. Layla had no idea what was coming or when; she just played all by ear. At least it was Saturday night, and she had one more day away from school and teachers that despised her. She hated school, but she had to stay for her sister. She would literally do anything for Sheri and had done anything she could in their lives to take care of her. Layla faded into a stoned sleep.

The nightmare was the same. She was in the hospital waiting for the nurses to hand her her newborn baby and crying in tears of joy when her mother came storming in and grabbing the baby away from the nurse, making the baby wail in its tiny voice. Layla screamed at her mother to give her the baby back and began to cry and scream at her, begging her not to take her baby—but her mother tells her to go back to being the whore that she is and she will raise this one. Layla is left with no baby, crying and sobbing at the loss. Sheri pulls a pistol from her purse and runs after her, and a shot rings out in the hallway.

At this point, Layla has no idea what’s happened, who is shot, or what’s happened to her baby.

Layla’s eyes popped open in the dark room with Marley still playing. She hated not knowing what happened next; it literally drove her crazy. Her sore arm alerted her too; her pot had apparently worn off, and her cutting was making her pay now, but she didn’t care, it was worth it to her. It was hers, one of the only things in her life that truly was. She decided to get back up and check on her mother again just in case.

When she opened her door and looked down the darkened hallway, she noticed her mother’s door wide open with the light on. She was alerted immediately and quickly moved down the hallway to see what was going on. When she entered the doorway, her mother sat on the bed, smoking a joint with her friend Vicki. Layla was a little shocked, and a funny gasping noise came out of her mouth.

Hey, dear, want a hit? her mother asked her. Vicki came over to check on us, honey, come on in.

Layla liked Vicki and was glad she was there. Vicki waved Layla over, smiling with her bright blue eyes.

She was actually her mother’s lover, but they didn’t put it that way because nobody cared. Just another colorful side of her mother in her opinion—that’s how she looked at it.

Layla smiled at Vicki and walked over around the bed where they sat and took the joint from her mother, taking a hit and handing it to Vicki.

You feeling okay, Mom? Layla asked her mother when she exhaled. Better?

Oh yeah, a lot better, said Lola, pushing her hair out of her own face. It’s cool, no worries. And I’m sorry, honey. She looked at her daughter with tears in her eyes. Layla knew she couldn’t have remembered any of what she had done; she was way too wacked out for that. It was very hard for her to swallow once again.

The three of them smoked another joint and visited for a while until Layla excused herself and returned to her room. She wasn’t really tired now, and it was almost four o’clock. She was standing in the middle of her room, debating on dusting when a tap came from her window, nearly sending her to the ceiling like a cat.

Layla spun around to