reversing the clocks ━ g.hawthorne [edited]

13. discover.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Is it odd if I say if I really want to murder someone?

A few days has passed since Avery's incident. Alisa and my dad are handling Hawthorne shit, so I'm left here. Alone. At my house. Where I've been shot. Right in the arm. My poor, precious arm.

A private investigation for this case has been done, yet nothing has been discovered. I fucking hate the police. Nobody has access to my phone. I still have his number in my call log. I can call him back. Maybe.

I'm alone. Alone and unsafe. Well, not technically. My father hired extra security around my house's premises. My daddy has always cared extra about his daughters.

But unfortunately, his youngest daughter is a maniac with the desire to get in trouble. Insane, dangerous trouble. I click on the number in my call log and call it. Will he pick up? Will he not? Spin the wheel to find out.

Oh no, he doesn't. Try again later, I guess.

Abruptly, I get a text message from the same number I tried calling.

Unsaved number: You're alive.

You: Surprise?

Unsaved number: I'll fucking ruin you, Victoria.

You: Boo hoo.

I chuckle at my own unserious response and block the number. Asshole.

With almost zero motivation at all, I get out of bed and put on my shoes. I need to buy bread since the loaf we have in our kitchen is as stale as me. Should I be absolutely terrified at the fact that the man who assaulted me and shot me just messaged me, threatening to ruin me? Of course. But the way I'm not giving a shit is probably the reason why I was put into therapy at the age of 14.

I get into my car and drive to the nearest convenience store, also known as my favorite since it's always open pass 11 p.m. All the other stores in the alley would be closed by now.

When I walk into the store, it's quiet and empty. I know this place like the back of my mind, and I know the owner even more. This store has supplied mine and Alisa's weekly dose of ice cream ever since we were little. The funniest thing is that this store isn't even all that. It's lacking proper security—no cameras, improper locks—and it looks centuries old. Oh, well, we all have emotional support stores.

I walk to the counter and then pass the aisles. There's no one here. Like at all. The staff room door is slightly open, though. And light is peeking out from it.

I know better than to go in there. I know better than to walk straight into danger. But hell, I threw away my entire senior year, so I've clearly got no fucks left to give.

I walk toward the room, pushing the door open and step in. "Hello?" I call out. "Um, I want bread?"

Then the door shuts and a hand wraps around my mouth.

I struggle for a little while, forgetting all the self-defense lessons I took before it comes back into my mind, and I lean my head forward before throwing it backwards as hard as I can, hurting my attacker. I open my mouth as much as I can and bite down on the flesh. It's salty. Ew. I push an elbow to the attacker's gut, turn around and punch the stranger's face.