Faster Than Your Bullets

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

I almost feel sorry for Drew.

"My dear boy," Mrs. Duncan shakes her head of curly, short, pepper-and-salt hair as she moves closer until her spectacles is just an inch away from Drew's cheekbone. "What have you done to yourself?"

We are enjoying ourselves in my living room. Well, I am enjoying myself, leaning against the piano, watching Mrs. Duncan examine Drew's bruises on the chairs in front of the fireplace. He is sitting in the most upright position I've even seen in any human being, inching his face away from Mrs. Duncan's so slowly that I could have missed it. One thing for sure, he is not having fun. Sometimes Mrs. Duncan just gets on people's nerves.

"It's been...let's see..." She touches a finger on the mark and Drew's eyes shoot open, as if they hadn't been looking like they were going to pop out already. I press my palm to my lips to suppress a giggle. However, Drew catches it. He shoots me an indignant glare and I giggle harder, grasping the piano's edge for support. Clearly, this wasn't what he had imagined about my offer to have him checked up, since he looked like my green-and-white spayed studio walls last winter. Though looking insulted, he accepted. Now, regret is written all over his face.

"It's been about a week, isn't it?" Mrs. Duncan smacks her tongue and shakes her head, sending her curls to dance again. Drew forces a strained smile.

"Yes, madam."

Mrs. Duncan laughs what I think merrily, with her head jerking back slightly. But Drew looks even more frightened and throws a puzzled look my way. I smile and wave at him. He turns away, agonized.

"Dear, just call me Ellen." She touches his shoulder. He blinks. "Honestly, I cannot understand why you still haven't got it yet, especially when I've told you five times. Then she cast a glance at me. "Andrea got it right away, when she was ten." Is this her idea of boasting about my intelligence? I suppose it is, since at the moment she laid eyes on me she said that I was a "smart little girl". Then Daphne got huffy and left for her room. She never liked Mrs. Duncan quite as much as I did.

Drew glances at me, his brows raised slightly. Sure, now he's going to tell her how stupid he thinks I am.

"So you've been here for seven years?" Okay, that's irrelevant.

"Eight. Andrea's turning eighteen this month, you see." She unscrews a bottle of a disgusting honey-colored liquid and applies it to the area under Drew's left eye. He flinches when the liquid touches his skin, but then sits still. Under the old butler's hand, Drew's green and white face turns into blue and white. I try to keep my giggle in my throat only but fail. It escapes and I collapse on the grand piano, laughing soundlessly, thumping the leather chair with my right fist. When I look at Drew's face again, his lips had become an irritated straight line, his eyes looking anywhere but me. Mrs. Duncan wipes her hand on a piece of white cloth, cap the bottle and stands up.

"Do this again before you go to sleep and leave it overnight. But for now, just, leave it there for five minutes, dear. Then you can wash it off." She points to the corner of the room. "There's a sink right there."

Drew eyes the sink. So do I. A recollection pops in my head. It was about a month ago, when I ran into Drew at the park, still disliking him then. After some incident my hand was bleeding, and Drew said we go to my place to clean bloody area. I washed my hand in that sink like a moron and hurt myself more. Then Drew laughs and I kicked him out of the house.

I suppress the sudden urge to slap myself. It was the most embarrassing, childish event that'd ever happened. No wonder Drew despised me. I was weird and aggressive and delusional, daydreaming about beating the crap out of him. But a lot of things can change in a month, including my personality. Peter more than once called me that he could write a book just from observing my changes in thirty days, and that I was "unstable". Well, it was a good word choice, instead of "fake". I wouldn't be angry if he said I was a fake plastic bimbo. I kind of am. And I am kind of awesome. What's wrong with being fake anyways? Nobody dies from it. They're only loved while not being themselves. Gosh, even I would hate myself if I acted however I like and said whatever I want to whoever I please.