Pathetically Mute isn't the truth [ON HOLD]

XI

  HER BOUNCING BLONDE CURLS are still soaking wet from the rain that has been crashing down for fifteen minutes now. Her hazel eyes haven't left me, filled with mild concern. We have been in the cafe for fifteen minutes now. Her name's Rachelle, Rachelle Ariel. Rachelle has offered her her jacket to me, and I hastily took it and put it on. I was warmed up and clinging close to my coffee. I like specific coffee with a lot of creme and one teaspoon of sugar. I disgrace black coffee. That's all you get? Plain coffee? I mean, I admit it, I would judge you. Rachelle sighed and drank her tea filled with specific herbs. She always likes something random, I guess she likes to order the menu one by one.

  "So, let me repeat that again. You went to an amazing ball like palace, and felt like you were cinderella? And, as you were dancing, you felt like you were magical. But... You saw a man on the phone, eyeing you? Really?

  "Besides that. You spoke, got drunk, and then went to his place. You then slept with him and woke up to his girlfriend? Who was actually like a model? Then slapped you?!" Rachelle said with bafflement.

  I nodded and gulped the coffee, the liquid warming my insides. Rachelle has allowed me to borrow her portable phone charger and offered me a ride home. She knew what has recently happened in my apartment room. She said that she looked herself, and the detectives contributed with Rachelle and put up security. She has no idea why my blood would be in my bathroom, when I had no cuts, but it's still a mystery. She has ordered my bathroom fixed and cleaned, plus the rest of the house also. She participated in the cleaning. Rachelle is really good with computers and electronics. She was the first to find the house of case White Cell that contained the latin speaking man and the white room under the trap door in the closet where Peter had died. She found out where the place was located rather quickly, and we all scrambled to the broken down house. Chief was happy with her work and promoted her to a higher position than any of the other detectives. She was now Chief's second in command and is handled with classified cases, such as the case White Cell. She's trusted well, and is still single. Mind blowing.

  Rachelle informed me that my house is now well secured and I can go back safely to it. I would honestly be glad to be away from Chief's place now, since that's where Quentin would look for me first. When I turned my phone on, I only found a message of you-know-who, who who must not be named, not Voldemort but close enough, yeah that guy, saying that he's sorry. I sighed and turned him on silent. Honestly, if he wanted to have me back, he would have told me about this Sasha girl. Rachelle was pretty surprised herself with Sasha being there. When Rachelle heard about Sasha, she brung her drink to her lips, looking away with her eyebrows furrowed. I saw a fire in her eyes, and I felt like it was directed at Quentin. She looked cold... Scary even. But that's her, she usually scares people off by just her stare. Rachelle and I worked well with Quentin for the few years I have known Quentin myself. I don't know why he would never mention someone so pretty. That day she opened the door knob the woman might just have killed me without Quentin there. Maybe I looked like a total bozo who was paid to sleep with him. She didn't even know me. It makes me wonder: what else is Quentin hiding? Why would he hide her? Is there more to this story?

  Rachelle has been my best friend since the night ten years ago. I couldn't thank her more for being there for me during that. What's funny is that she knew Tanner. She knew Tanner a lot, but she knew me more.

Let me elaborate.

I'm alone. In this weird sanctuary for people who are doctors. They inspect my body and look at the exterior of what is left of myself. They ask questions and I don't answer. I hear them perfectly well, and yet they're calling me deaf. I can see them so vividly, yet they presumed I'm blind because of the fog that is forming in my eyes. I stare ahead at the wall that lays bare, only holding a certificate of some sort for some certain doctor. Too many people have poked and prodded me. I still imagine myself screaming and just minutes before we have held hands and laughed at his stories. I didn't shed a single tear after the incident. This was like a burdened pass that I will have to endure for my lifetime. I am ashamed of how I am so called name The Girl Who Survived by interviewers. I am embarrassed to look away from reporters as they come flying into the hospital room with notepads and questions. I am angry at myself for not yelling out my emotions. And last of all, I feel regret. I regret sneaking out. I regret meeting Tanner. Most of all, I regret ever being myself.
No one helped me through this because they did not assume I was hurt. Well, they knew I was hurt by what I have seen, but they did not know what I feel. I felt trapped. Lonely. Humans communicate. It's what we do. Every day a human says a word, millions to billions of us individuals exchange greetings on some level. It could be a friendly hello, to a row of throwing nasty words at one another.
Yet, We are created into this world to communicate.
That's where I'm left out. I'm thrown into this little spare pile. I'm a Girl Who Survived in the newspapers. They don't know my name. No one cared that night. My mother and grandmother were there, but yet they did not sympathize with me to let me be comfortable. Instead I was tense at the thought of resting my head on my mother's shoulders. She is horribly ashamed. She hugged me, and left.
Only someone opened the door, with short blonde curls, bright blue eyes, and a small nose. She walked into my small room, wearing an expensive looking dress. She was tall at her age, and she was also fourteen. She seemed to have known me a lot more than I had knew her. She knew my name and birthday. She knew my mother's name and who Tanner was. I asked her with my hand writing—she did not know sign language at the moment—at some point of how she knew such precious things. She admitted she knew some people that work for the newspapers because her dad works there.
After that, we bonded quite fluently. She's helped me through my pain and let me smile again. Although, I have always never told her a secret; she had seemed to know exactly what I am hiding.
As we grew older, we became opposites. She had become richer and more respected in her colleges, being miss pretty. I have been working my butt off in diner's, or as doing odd jobs to pay off my college tuition. With my mother's help.
We both went for the same courses, we had the same decrees and the same job. We loved it. We shared things together, but something was different.
Rachelle, Rachelle Ariel, was different at upcoming eight years of our friendship. She ticked in a sort of way, and snapped at moments when she was on the computer. They were subtle, of course, but I had noticed. There was something there. I didn't know what, but otherwise that, I cared about her and she was someone that would never leave my side.

After our comfortable conversations and finally getting warmed up, Rachelle payed for the coffee and we left. She drove me to my apartment home and lent me her umbrella. I waved goodbye and watched her drive away on the threshold of my door. I closed the door, and sighed deeply, sliding to the floor to relax. I closed my eyes and laid there for maybe a minute, or maybe ten.

A sticky note of some sort fluttered to my hand. I looked at it and there were four numbers and cursive handwriting at the top.

The alarm system
4928

Not my favorite. I was not a fan of these contraptions since they were so complicated. I got up, threw my heels away from me like they have ebola, and saw the manual sitting on the couch.

I read through it thoroughly and got the alarm system working successfully. I might've messed up a few things in the end, but it turned out alright.

Now, I take off these nasty clothes I will never wear ever again, turn on the shower, and proceed to scrub my body clean head to toe. After, I head to bed that holds many blankets of soft cushy warmth with my hair still wet. I get on pajamas, and crash onto what is my bed once again. I close my eyes.

I open them at the crack of dawn from the phone ringing. Seeing the ID, it's the department.

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