The World I Knew Isn't The Same Anymore

Chapter 3 The History in our Blood

The birds outside begin to sing, and sunlight peeps through the cracks of the curtains. Slowly, Bree's eyes start to flutter open. Her face feels heavy from the makeup she wore last night, and she can feel the individual flakes under her eyes from chipped off mascara.

It smells like old spice and Dior cologne, and her stomach is rumbling. She's confused for a spilt second of how the hell she got here, but then memories from last night come rushing back like a storm. An uneasy feeling settles in her stomach as images of Ashlys dead body and a strange man in a mirror floods her mind. Then that uneasy feeling drops into her stomach and she fights every urge to not throw up liquids.

Where am I?

The sheets underneath her are freshly washed and feel as soft as a stuffed animal, and the pillows feel like clouds holding her head up. She wants to shout, but doesn't know what time it is and is scared to wake anyone else up if people are in this house.

Once the queasiness releases from her stomach she raises her hands to rub her head. She remembers blood all over her body and a slicing pain beneath her shoulder, but now her body moves painlessly and there's no blood at all. As she makes her body sit up, she realizes there's no pain or soreness from the night before and the movement was quite easy. She's still in the same dress as last night, but her shoes are off no where to be seen in this room. But in the corner she sees her plain pink suitcase.

Oh thank God.

From beyond the walls she can hear faint voices having a conversation. However she's too far away to make out what they're saying or who the voices belong to. She doesn't feel threatened though, as she woke up in a neat bed and the bedroom seems to be an average boys one.

Fuck it. "Hello?" She raises her voice to a small shout, but she continues to sit on the bed because she's unsure where that door would lead to. "Hello?" She shouts once more, this time a little louder.

The voices mutter another thing before she hears footsteps rushing closer towards her. She braces herself as the footsteps continue to inch closer and the door knob starts to turn.

"You're awake!" An enthusiastic Chase enters the room. He looks more relaxed compared to last night, as his hair is freshly wet and there's red in his cheeks. He's wearing black joggers, slippers, and a plain white tee that makes his dark hair look even darker and green eyes stand out even more.

Bree just stares at him in awe with her lips slightly parted. She did not expect this.

"How are you feeling? I'm sorry about—"

"It's okay," she cuts him off, as she can already guess he's going to say something along the lines of I'm sorry for you loss, and sympathy pity is the last thing she wants to hear right now. "I'm fine - I'm good."

His energetic features seem to dial back a bit and his brows slightly furrow. He takes a couple steps forward before sitting next to her on the bed careful to keep enough distance between them. "Well um, you're here because I didn't think it'd be nice to just abandon you," he takes a slight pause and looks at her. "Do you have any questions at all?"

Bree takes a moment to think and remember all the events from last night. What the fuck happened? Who were those people? What are you people? Why did I shoot fire and see a strange man? Why did my only friend have to die? "Um...no not really."

Chases eyebrows furrow even more and he wears a look of utter confusion. "No not really?" He repeats her words. "Really? Not anything at all?"

Bree just shrugs. She's never been good at expressing emotion nor at feeling them. She still can't remember who she was before Hope for the Youth, and as long as she's been there, controlling or blocking out emotion was a number one priority. "I mean I shot fire out of my body and saw you shoot 3 people who I couldn't even tell if they were a girl or a guy. Is that like, not normal?" Her voice has a big tint of sarcasm in it, but she's also found humor to be a source of pushing things down.