After attending the Winter formal, Bree Simmons knew something wasn't right. Things have changed, and she isn't sure if they're for better, or worse. As a rising photographer, all of her attention is on the mysterious happenings in Beacon Hills. Whe...
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She didn't want to be in an overcrowded room of horny teenagers dressed in an off-the-shoulder violet dress. She wanted to be home in pajamas, going through her photos or reading a novel, but she also had to force herself to become extroverted, even if it was for one night. Her heels clacked as she made her way towards the gym from the hallway, where everyone seemed to be making out or having private conversations. It was then, she saw a familiar boy with a buzzcut on his phone down the hallway, jacket off, looking for someone.
Jackson Whittemore, co-captain of the Beacon Hills High lacrosse team, walked over to the boy causing Bree to stop in the middle of the hallway, curious of the exchange between the two. She knew all too well the reputation of Jackson and his need for bullying people he felt were lesser than him, and his holier-than attitude often made her frustrated. Though, she couldn't help, but become curious, since the boy in front of the jock seemed to be talking casually to him, even though, he didn't seem the type to become best buds with Jackson of all people.
Jackson looked as if he had been through hell as buzzcut boy asked, "Where the hell have you been? Did Lydia ever find you?"
No answer. Bree was becoming overly curious about what was wrong as they discussed what Bree assumed to be Lydia Martin.
"Jackson? What did you do?"
Bree couldn't hear more of the conversation when Jackson's hushed voice told the boy something. It wasn't long after that, Stiles Stilinski ran out of the school building to find someone, more than likely Lydia, and Bree wanted to know why, but something stopped her. A hand of someone she knew. Her head whipped around to find her ex-boyfriend, his piercing blue eyes sad and desperate.
"Isaac," she whispered before shaking her head, squirming to escape his tight grip.
He begged her not to leave him alone, but all she could think of when looking into his hurt eyes was the fact that he lied to her, and kept lying to her. Over and over again. She knew what was happening in his house, and it frustrated her that he made her swear not to tell anyone, and she took a swear very seriously. She finally decided to call their relationship off two days before the winter formal, telling him his lies and cowardice is what was killing what they had.
Finally, she managed to escape, running like hell out the door. She ran as far as she could, not caring about where she would end up, and stopped just before the lacrosse field. Yet something wasn't right once she arrived. The field lights were on, flooding the area with bright white lights. Hesitantly, she went in the direction of the field, only to find a body lying in the grass. She caught sight of strawberry blond hair, and blood staining the once clean off-white dress. Lydia Martin.
"Lydia?!" Bree called, scared of what had occurred before she took off her heels to run towards her classmate.
Bree knelt down next to the barely breathing girl, taking note of the scratches, claw marks, and blood attached, and finding a bite mark on her side that looked extremely deep. Immediately, Bree found her phone, and called 911, shakily telling them that her classmate was attacked, and that she needed immediate medical attention at Beacon Hills High School. Minutes later, Jackson approached the field, a panicked look on his face.
Bree, honestly, could've cared less about how he knew she was there before he swooped up his ex bridal style and rushed off to the school with her, Bree only a few steps behind him, carrying her heels in her hand. Once the ambulance arrived, Bree and Jackson instantly sat in the back on their way to the hospital. The trip there seemed unbearably long to Bree, and felt even longer when they finally made it, only for a nurse to stop her and Jackson from following where they were taking Lydia. They were told to sit in the waiting room until two gentlemen asked to see Jackson, possibly to ask him questions as a witness.
Bree felt awkward and stupid at the same time being there. She had no obligation to Lydia, especially since they hadn't been friends since the previous year, and yet Bree felt drawn to her for some reason, as if they were connected, or about to be. Shaking off her crazy thoughts, she observed her cold, bloodied hands. She couldn't take seeing it anymore, and asked a nurse for some new clothes, and somewhere to wash the blood off. The nurse had kind brown eyes, and curly brown, pulled back hair as she offered Bree an unoccupied room with fresh clothes the hospital kept for patients. The teenager couldn't keep her eyes off the name badge the woman wore before leaving her alone to change. M. McCall.
Bree kept the name in mind while she changed into the new pair of jeans and t-shirt given to her inside the vacant room before she went to find Lydia's room. Once rounding a corner, she came upon a room with a window, a full view of Lydia Martin laying unconscious in her hospital bed, her mother sitting next to her, worried. The elevator opened with someone stumbling out who rammed right past her towards Lydia's room. The Sheriff stopped the buzzcut-haired boy telling him how lucky he was since they were in a hospital.
Stiles stuttered out an apology, his movements spastic and anxious as he admitted he lost the keys to his Jeep, but his father interrupted him.
"Stiles, I don't care!"
Bree could feel the boy's emotion of fear and anxiety rolling off him, and seemed to notice a blurred color radiating around him. She blinked, the color now gone, but now she was stuck in the hospital, alone with a girl who was brutally attacked. Taking deep, slow breaths, Bree found the courage to dial the most frequent number in her calls list. She held it up to her ear, the phone ringing two times before-
"What's the drama now?" a deep, comforting voice asked.
Bree felt herself on the verge of crying, but refrained from doing so, knowing full well that would get her nowhere, so instead she spoke up confidently, "There was an attack outside the school. I'm at the hospital."
The voice switched from casual to concerned within seconds, "Are you alright? Are you hurt? What happened?!"
"I'll answer everything when you get here, just please pick me up."
Sighing, he replied, "Alright, I'm on my way."
Before she could forget, she put in, "Don't tell mom, please."
