"Oh my gosh, Brinley!"
Clarin runs over to me and pulls me into her tight embrace. She lets out a long breath, pulling away to look me over.
"I can't- how can- I am so-" she stops, looking up. "I'm so glad you're okay."
My mom is on me next, kissing each cheek and tears shine in her eyes. She presses her lips into a thin line and a few spill over onto her cheeks.
"You're okay," she manages to get out.
"What is that, Brinley?" Clarin asks me, looking horrified. "OH MY GOSH, oh my gosh, did he... Did he do that to you?" She holds a hand in front of her mouth to hide a gasp.
I find her focus on my arm covered in stitches now. I nod. "If by he, you mean Jonathan, then yes."
A new hand touches my shoulder, reminding me that Owen is still here. He spins me around to face him, taking both my hands in his. He pulls me into a tight hug, and I am almost confused, but I hear him whisper in my ear.
"If you don't feel safe, you can stay here. Or I can come with you. I want you to feel safe as well as be safe."
I smile, happy with the reminder that he cares. "I'll be okay. Thank you."
"Don't be afraid to call," he says, breath tickling my ear. "Anytime. Anywhere. I don't care if it's two in the morning. Let me know if you're worried about anything."
He lets me go, hands on my shoulders. Clarin and my mom both smile at him merrily.
"Thank you," my mom says, "for taking care of her. Thank you so much for doing us this favor, and thank you for keeping her... alive."
Owen nods. "I wouldn't do anything less."
"Alright, we had better get heading," my mom says, checking her watch. "I've got a work meeting in twenty minutes."
Owen drags me towards me again, leaving a gentle kiss on the lips. I hold his collar so he's forced to stay a little longer. There are coos and aw's from the unwanted audience.
"Can you come to the hospital and see Joey tomorrow?" he asks, tucking a piece of hair behind my ears.
I look over at my mom expectantly.
"Clarin can drive you," she nods.
And with that short goodbye, I'm ushered out the door and towards the car.
<•>•<•>
"Have you been home yet?" I ask the two in the front seats of the car.
"No," Clarin replies. "We drove straight to get you."
"Mm," I hum my acknowledgement.
We turn onto our street and there is an immediate intake of breath. I sit up straighter trying to see what the big deal is. Our whole street is lined with cars and vans and people. My eyes widen. We can hardly drive through, it's so packed. Then my eyes lay on my house. Our yard is crowded with what looks like reporters and journalists and photographers.
"Whoa," Clarin lets out a low whistle.
My mom lays on the horn, causing many people to jump. She puts the car on full speed, unafraid of ramming into any uninvited visitors. We swerve into the driveway and park in the garage, closing the door and locking it.
"Why're they here?" I ask, annoyed. "What do they expect?"
"A golden word about your horrid events," Clarin says, looking disgusted. "Mom, call the police."
"They're out there," she replies, rolling down the blinds. "They're sorting everything out. Why don't you two go upstairs, I'm going to go give these people a piece of my mind."
Clarin and I troop up the staircase and stop in my room. I fall onto my bed, staring at the ceiling. I wish my ceiling was full of posters like Owen's is. I sigh, realizing how much I really do wish he were here right now. I don't want to call, though, because I don't want to be that clingy.
"I wonder what she's saying to them," Clarin breaks my thoughts.
I sit up, then walk to the window, also extremely curious. "Let's find out."
I yank it open and immediately voices reach my ears.
"-you think this is a joke? A good story? Does prodding a little girl who's just gone through something none of you has for answers that'll make you some money make you feel good? Because if I were you I'd feel pretty darn guilty about now. Is money worth-"
I promptly close the window, unable to listen any longer.
<•>•<•>
I hold a gun in my hand.
The man has his hands above his head in surrender.
His forehead beams with sweat and his eyes are pressed closed in fear.
"Please," he begs me. "Please don't do it. Please. Let me live."
But I can't find a shred of mercy in my body. I want this man to die.
"Please," a few tears fall down his face. "Don't."
But I don't want to listen to his pleads. I want him gone.
My finger rests on the trigger. I tilt my head a little, aim it at his heart.
Please.
He deserves it.
I pull the trigger.
I sit up straight in my bed, breathing hard. I cough, my throat burning. My entire body is drenched in sweat. My face is wet with tears. I put a hand to my forehead, my shoulders shaking with sobs.
What have I done?
I'm a murderer.
I'm not innocent. I killed Jonathan. I took away any chance for a full life that he had. My hands aren't clean.
I curl my knees up to my chest, trying to not pay attention to the darkness. I wish Owen were here. I need him here.
My hands fumble across my bed and to the bedside table where my phone sits. I yank it off the charger, hands shaking. Owen's number is on speed dial, and the phone starts to call the correct person.
"Brinley, what's going on? What do you need?" He sounds worried, concerned. But he mostly sounds tired. I woke him up with this call.
I let out a few uneven breaths before replying. "I... I'm a-" murderer is what I was going to say. But his tired voice makes me realize that I'm being selfish. I can't worry him right now. He should sleep. "I'm fine. I'm sorry I called."
And I hang up the phone, rubbing my eyes. I can't believe I thought that was a good idea. I need to stop worrying Owen.
Maybe I should just try to go back to sleep. I was able to last time. But Owen was here last time. I shouldn't have to rely on him every time. I should be strong enough to get myself through one whole night by myself.
But every time I close my eyes, I see the man, his terrified face. How could I kill a man? How could my hands do that to someone?
And it makes me feel sick.
My door opens, and a concerned-looking Owen hurries inside. I stare at him in complete surprise. How did he get here so quickly?
He walks over to my bed and sits down next to me, taking a long breath. "What's wrong, Brinley?"
I look away, feeling very embarrassed that he actually came here. Why did I call?
"Nothing," I lie.
"Brinley," he says, taking my hand in his. "Please tell me. Something is clearly bothering you, otherwise you wouldn't have called."
I frown, furrowing my eyebrows. My cheeks go bright red, but luckily the room is dark. "I didn't mean to call."
Owen sighs. He touches my cheek, forcing me to look up at him. His eyes search mine, and I bite my lip, not only feeling guilty for calling him but for keeping my problems from him. How can one look make me feel so bad about everything?
"Please," he says quietly. "I care about you. I care about what's going on. Something's not right, is it? Did you have another nightmare?"
I feel tears stinging my eyes. No, don't cry. I won't let myself cry.
"Yes," I whisper.
His hand moves from my cheek to my shoulder. "Do you want to talk about it?" By the look in his eyes, I know he won't stop until he knows exactly what's eating at me.
I look down, unable to hold his strong gaze. "I... I killed someone."
He frowns, shaking his head. "Is this about Jonathan?"
I look back into his eyes, which look very sad, and nod once.
Owen runs a hand through his hair, then drags it down his face tiredly. "You have no reason to worth about that. It was defense. You could very well have died if you didn't shoot that evil man."
A few tears spill over my eyes. I wipe them away quickly, ashamed. It may have been defense, but I still did it. I still held a gun and shot it at a person who will never see daylight again.
"I can't tell you how to feel about this. I've never had to deal with anything like this. But just know I'm here, and I want you to tell me anything and everything," Owen says.
Owen takes me in his arms and kisses the top of my head, just holding me still for a few minutes. No matter how nice it is, I still wish I hadn't called. I wish I had not gotten him worked up over such a stupid dream.
"Go home," I say quietly.
"What?" Owen asks, confused.
"Go home. Go to sleep," I say, moving away from him. "We both need it, and you know it. I'm fine. I'm sorry I called."
"I'm not sorry you called. I'm glad you did," Owen says. "Are you sure you're okay with me leaving? I don't mind staying here, not at all."
"No," I try to smile. "Go."
"Alright," he leans in and gives me a light kiss before standing up off my bed. "I'll see you tomorrow then?"
I nod. "Yes."
"I can pick you up if you need," he offers.
"No, the hospital's right by your dorm. Don't drive all the way here. Clarin can take me no problem," I assure him.
Owen nods, bids me goodnight, and leaves me wondering when I got so lucky. I know no other person who would drive here in the middle of the night just to make sure I'm okay.
It makes me think, not for the first time, why I didn't fall for him right away. He told me that we only started dating a year ago, even though we've known each other since we were children.
It also makes me think why he chose me, of all people. There are so many girls in this world, and he chose me. I smile at the thought. This person, so close to perfection, chose me.
I choose him, too. I have the feeling we'll be stuck with each other for a while.