Saturday 1st June, 2019
I lie in bed.
Everything hurt. Much worse than the night before.
After spending a solid two hours convincing my parents not to call the police or go out with bats and knives to hunt down whoever 'mugged' me, (an hour and a half of it was going around in circles, until I decided to appeal to their Christian sides, and that stopped them effectively), I trudged to my room, changed into pjs without looking at myself, took out my contacts, and climbed into bed.
Then I got angry. Fury built up, started to eat at me - it numbed the pain. I could see Julian's pretty face in my head, tricking me into thinking that he might have actually been concerned instead of looking after me to make himself feel better.
I wanted to punch something, call him and tell him to stuff his responsibility. But I just lay there.
Now, with barely an hour of sleep, I rolled over when my phone started ringing.
"Hi," I croaked, reading the ID. "I'm sorry I didn't--"
"Are you okay?" Brendan's anxious voice interrupted me.
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"You don't sound fine. You sound like you have a golf ball in your mouth."
At least I can speak normally, I thought. "I don't. Just got up."
"Why didn't you text?"
"I got lost. It was late by the time I got home. I'm sorry, Brendan."
He sighed. "I knew we should have taken you with us. I had a bad feeling when I left you."
"I'm fine."
"Good. . . When's your tutoring?"
My eyes flew wide, scanning for my clock on the wall. "Shit, soon. Can I call you later?"
"Sure--" I hung up, scrabbling to the wardrobe. Pain pulsed in my side, and I bent over, gasping.
That wasn't good. Slowly, I pulled clothes off the hangers, stepping into a denim skirt carefully. Usually I wouldn't wear a skirt with no tights - my legs weren't the kind you showed off. Today, though, the scrapes on my knees were an angry red colour, wet with some sort of liquid. I didn't want anything on them.
Grimacing, I slid on a pastel yellow t-shirt. My eyes found myself in the mirror, and I blinked. Edging forward, I touched the dark bruise over my eyebrow, temple, under my right eye. Hissing, I moved my finger away with the shooting pain. Purple and black dots decorated the patches of darkness.
A slice in my lip was blood-red, a bruise the same colours as the others spread under my bottom lip. I barely recognised myself - a new pimple had also arrived on the side of my nose, but I couldn't find it in me to care.
My stomach turned at the thought of pressing make-up onto the bruises, and I decided to just go without.
Fingers pulling at the t-shirt, the side of my stomach was exposed. A gasp escaped me. One side of my stomach was covered in a dark bruise; a patch of purple-green. My stomach wasn't flat - no ribs were exposed, a softness there instead. For the first time, I'm grateful for it - that kick would have hurt a lot more without the extra padding.
I found myself ridiculously glad I'd fought Julian off yesterday. Nobody wants to see this.
I managed to sneak out; Dad's snores vibrated through the house, and Mum was in Church.
Starting the Beetle, I put my phone on the dash to follow directions.
It hurt to drive - it hurt to do anything, especially sit, but what could I do?
At my destination, I looked around in confusion. A memory tugged at my mind - it wasn't until I spied the thick wall of trees across the road that I remembered: I'd been here before.
Getting out, I grabbed my backpack and made my way over. There was a small pathway in the middle of the trees; following it, soon enough the trees broke away, and a small castle awaited me.
I felt my mouth drop open. The building in front was magnificent; black marble; a miniature palace. A wide porch, with a wicker swing, opened to a huge wooden door. Above that, two wide turrets stretched as tall as the trees, the building stretching as wide as it was narrow.
Windows, tinted glass, were fitted into the marble. It was like nothing I'd ever seen.
Starting forward, I spared no thought to what I looked like and hopped onto the porch, knocking three times on the door.
Not three seconds later, it swung open. I looked up into the eyes of a middle-aged man. A very handsome middle-aged man.
"Miss Miller!" He exclaimed, beautiful face splitting into a grin. He gave no time to be nervous. "Come on in!"
I stumbled inside, into a huge square lobby. A chessboard-like floor stretched across, running into several rooms spidering off the lobby. A crystal chandelier, bigger than was socially acceptable, hung from the ceiling. Then, a grand staircase, winding like in the movies, followed the dome-shaped walls and ended in the middle of the floor.
It was incredible.
"Designed it myself," the man said from behind me.
I shut my mouth, turning. "I'm sorry! How rude of me," I extended a hand. "I'm Brooke Miller."
"I know," the man said. I noticed the black curls on his head, tamed and shorter than the dark curls I was used to. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Mr Jones."
I let go of his hand. "You have a beautiful home."
"Thank you." His eyes seemed so familiar. . . They were staring at me intently, probably because of the fact I look like I've just come back from brawling with a bear.
"Mugged." I explained.
"Looks nasty," his brow furrowed. "I hope you caught them."
Nodding, I veered away from the subject. "You live on a very empty street."
He grinned, flashing white teeth. "I like it quiet."
"I see. . ."
Mr Jones clapped his hands together in apparent delight. "I can't thank you enough for starting tutoring on a Saturday. I just thought you'd like to meet my son before properly beginning."
"Of course! I think that's a great idea."
His eyes danced, and I got a shock as he reminded me of someone, I just didn't know who. . . As he stepped away, I noticed the suit he wore for the first time. Black, expensive, smart.
"Son!" He hollered from the bottom of the stairs. "Come on down!"
I held my breath.
"Don't be rude, son!" He shouted after half a minute. "Come down!"
Heavy footsteps sounded above me, and suddenly a voice was at the top of the stairs. "I don't need a tutor. Tell them to fuck off."
I froze. My eyes stared in front, seeing nothing.
No. No, no, no, no! It couldn't - can't be!
I looked at Mr Jones again; dark curls, large eyes that could be black or brown. Of course!
Sure enough, Mr Jones hissed, "Julian Jones, get down these stairs right now."
I watched, helpless, as two combat boots appeared on the top step. Then two slender legs, clad in black jeans, a torso, and finally, his beautiful face.
Mid-eye roll, Julian stopped dead at the top of the stairs as he saw me.
"Brooke?"