reversing the clocks ━ g.hawthorne [edited]

10. eyes that watch.

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I haven't been telling you everything. It's not that I'm trying to keep it a secret, but more like I can't find a genuine explanation as to what genuinely happened in my past.

As a summary, I spend a lot of my time growing up in Hawthorne House, but it wasn't all of my time. When my mother was alive, she kept me and Alisa away from public view. Another thing you may not know is that my mother was a very famous Spanish singer, who was mainly popular in Spain, until she started touring countries. She stopped making music when she decided to settle down and marry and have kids. When she had Alisa, nobody-other than family-knew she existed. That was how good my mother was at keeping us a secret.

When I was born, however, it was around the time my family started getting very close to the Hawthornes. Even then, I still wasn't that close as I am now. Not until my mother passed away.

Ever since my mother's death, things started going very downhill. My father was a present man, but he couldn't always be, so my sister had to lend a hand in raising me. She herself was only 18 at the time. It didn't burden her though, not until the media started noticing more about our family.

When I was fifteen, I had made a promise with Grayson Hawthorne, to be his bestfriend for as long as we're on good terms. It clearly wasn't a promised that was kept.

I tried my best to make it seem like it didn't bother me, but it hurts, so very much, to be left behind by one-no-two of your closest friends.

I drive into the front yard of my family's house, taking in the view of the flowers my mother gardened. I walk to the front porch, head to the front door, where I saw a note. Familiar to the ones I've been getting for quite some time.

I know what you must be thinking, "You've been getting notes from unknown people, and you're still so calm about it?" and to that I respond, who said I'm calm about it? I've been freaking out, afraid that someone's watching. But I find myself more afraid for my family than for myself. I don't just get these notes at home. Sometimes, I find them at the table I'm sitting at in a café, sometimes it falls out of the books the I pick up at the library, and sometimes, at public restrooms.

The notes would say the usual creepy things like 'I can see you' or 'I know where you live' which is stupid because obviously they'd know where I lived if they managed to send these ridiculous notes to my house.

The notes never scared me to an anxiety attack, but they did prevent sleep. The times I'd receive these notes would be spaced out, a few days in between the next one. It was enough time for me to get over it.

But when I unfolded this particular yellow sticky note, my heart actually dropped out of my chest.

I gulp so hard that it hurts. I unlock my house door and head straight to the kitchen where I place the note down on the counter and pull my phone out of my pocket. I stare at the number and punch the digits in, dialing as soon as I could. I'm shaking so badly; the phone almost falls out of my grip. Then the stranger picks up, and with trembling fingers wrapped around my device, I place it against my ear.

"Finally," says the stranger on the other line, "I've been waiting, my sweet, sweet Victoria." The way the masculine voice says my name makes me realize exactly who he is. My high school math teacher, Mr. Hansen, who took away my youth and innocence, who put me through the worst type of pain any teenage girl could ever endure, who shushed me of my sobs as he stripped my clothes off of me and did things that scarred me.

I'm now taking in big breaths, but my lungs still feel empty of air. I need my meds, is what my mind is yelling, I need to hang up. But I don't.

Through desperate heaving of breaths, I reply, trying to sound as calm as humanly possible. "You," I say, like the pronoun itself has done wrong to me.

"I am half blind, do you know? I can't bare to see myself in the mirror and not be reminded of how my favorite student has stabbed me in my left eye. With a pen, nonetheless."

I am not only full of fear and anxiety, but I am also drenched with fury. So, so furious that a comeback comes almost immediately. "You should be unable to see yourself in the mirror, knowing what you did." I'm almost shouting, basically forgetting to keep my calm. How could anyone possible keep their calm when talking with the person who ruined their life? "Does it hurt you, huh, to not be able to talk to your daughter now? Now that she knows what you've done? Aren't you ashamed of yourself, you disgusting rapist asshole? Tell me!"

But my screams aren't working. He simply laughs at me through the phone, and I want to throw this stupid gadget across the room.

"My dear, I would've thought your time in the ward was enough to teach you to shut your pretty mouth up. Your words don't scare me, foolish girl, your life is fucked forever, and mine is halfway done. At least I had memories." Then he hangs up.

I want to scream. I want to cry. I want someone to hug me and hold me and tell me that its all going to be alright. I think of how Alisa would comfort me, bring me to safety. I think of how my father would go lengths to keep me from danger. I think of Grayson, and how much I wanted to be held in protective arms by him.

But instead my phone is placed back on the counter and I'm pacing and panting around the kitchen, having a full-blown panic attack. My head is turning to every direction of the space around me, to every window. I stare at the one that shows trees, and nothing else, and I'm rushing over to shut its blinds.

But something stops me.

A bullet stops me.

And strikes me in my right arm.

And in no time, I'm on my knees, crying, begging for help, as I clutch my right forearm and try so desperately to get to the kitchen counter and call for help. My legs weren't the ones shot, but it betrays me, still, by refusing to help me up. I am dragging myself, pushing myself against the floor, just to get to my phone. But the blood and tears cover my view, and my head is spinning, my heart is thumping, and the pain is so, so bad that I'm screaming at the top of my lungs.

I'm smart enough to know I can't die from a shot in the arm. But I'm also smart enough to know that if no one helps me immediately, I just might be meeting my mother soon enough.

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wow. wowowowowow. wow. votes and comments are very VERY appreciated, and so is feedback, thank u very much for being patient w me. ilyasm.

━nkr.