Wounded; A Brallie Fan Fiction *EDITING*

Chapter Twenty-One: Shifted

Callie's POV
"Just block his number," Mariana whispered groggily into the darkness.

I could have sworn she was asleep. Forty minutes ago, she began to breath through the very back of her nose, which made her breath deeper and louder, almost to the point of snoring, depending on her state of dreaming. But I was wrong tonight, because she lay awake now, after my dad having called for the third time tonight, the eighth time today. He'd left countless E-mails, texts, voicemails. All of which I had yet to open, had yet to even want to.

"I can't," I whispered as I finally shut my phone off. "He'll just blame it on Moms."

I heard the sheets ruffle as Mariana turned toward me. She breathed out a sympathetic sigh, and I looked back at her in response. In the glow of the moon, I could see the expression of love and empathy she was sending my way.

And it was little things like that; little gestures from family when you're stuck right smack in the middle of a difficult time, that made it all . . . Not less painful, but so much more durable with somebody by your side.

I hated Robert. I hated everything about him, from the beginning; I hated that he made me take a DNA test when he found out about me; I hated that he practically stalked me before I knew he was my father. I hated that he wouldn't re-sign the papers when my spoiled Mini-Me ripped up the originals. I hated that he made me see him when I didn't want to, that he put me through hell and then let go of the custody battle, that he hurt my mother, that I actually chose him over Donald, the one who raised me.

I hated him for accusing Jesus of having pushed me in front of the car. Not only did it not make sense based on the way I was hit, but it didn't make sense below the mentality. It was like he was setting our family up for something, knit-picking us to find a reason why I shouldn't belong here.

But I did belong. For the first freakin' time I belonged, and he didn't care that he was tearing it apart.

But most of all, I hate that he was my father, and that I couldn't help loving him to death.

But I couldn't make a connection; I couldn't tie it together, I couldn't imagine being hit by that car and it being my own brother's fault. And I knew he couldn't either; it was the selfish person he was that made him sift through my life and pick out flaws that were not even there.

I thought about the lady who hit me; I could ever so faintly -so lightly that it almost wasn't there- remember her chilling screams as Jesus said my name, over and over, and over and over.

It was terrifying, to hear one person screaming at herself, and another screaming at me.

I wanted to meet whoever she was at the hospital, but Moms wouldn't let me. And I think it was that vague sound of the woman crying that made me not want to press charges, because in my mind, it happened for a reason, and I was here, I was okay, I was alive, and I was home. Had I not been hit, Jesus never would have been able to convince me to do the right thing. So where would I be?

It had been hard for Moms, especially Stef. She wanted to press charges, and I could see why. If the first obvious reason wasn't already clear enough, for one, she's an officer. And the second is, she's a mother, and I was the third child she almost lost in less than nine months, not counting Frankie, who, unfortunately we did lose before we were even blessed with her. So of coarse she would want to do everything in her power to deteriorate the person who almost took her child's life. But she didn't. Because, as a mother, she put her child's wants first. And that's something I don't think Robert will ever be able to understand, let alone act upon.

Impulsively, in the midst of my sad thoughts and aching loneliness, I got out of bed, and I suppose I wasn't fooling Mariana as I faked a potty dance.

"You're going to Brandon's room, aren't you," Mariana grumbled beside the muffle of her pillow.

"Don't tell Moms," I answered.

***

Brandon's chest was warm against my cheek, and my head fit perfectly in the dip between his neck and his midsection, where I counted the rise and fall of his crashing chest. We lie awake, silent, as I listened to the rhythmic drumming of his fragile heartbeat, as mine accidentally fell into sync with his.

He stroked my bare shoulder as he looked out in the distance, detached from the moment. He was so calm and so serene; lost in a daze, somewhere else completely. How could I disrupt that kind of peacefulness? Though I was aching to hear his voice manipulate the illusion that the darkness was a bad thing.

Tonight, Brandon's eyes were different somehow. They held mystery and criteria, and it made him shyly more enigmatic than usual. Not only was the feeling different, too, but the color seemed to be darker, stormier, more clouded than usual.

I adjusted my head on his chest, and he flinched, as though I'd pinched him in his sleep. He looked around the room, and then at me, and the confusion on his face disappeared, replaced with what seemed like, what I hoped was relief.

"And where did you go off to?" I asked softly.

He chuckled carefully and kissed my forehead with the silky soft tip of his lips. "I was thinking."

"About?"

"You," he answered simply, smiling at me with pride and adoration, "Wyatt. Me, Lou. The way it all kind of . . . I don't know, came together somehow."

I nodded in understanding, but not realization, because it had dawned on me so many times before. All the obstacles along the way; first Talya, then Wyatt, then simply the cold fact that we would shift into siblings. Then Lou . . . And now . . . Here we are. We overcame every single thing that nearly killed us, and now it's like none of it ever existed. We worried about it so much at the time, but we came out stronger.

"So what do you think," Brandon breathed after another round of thoughtful silence. "First or second time better?"

I could hear the joking in his low, whisper of a voice, and I laughed for it with happiness and sheepishness.

"Well this time we weren't drunk," I observed quietly. "And I actually know where we are. So this time was just a touch more comfortable."

And then we both laughed softly at the memory. We were so harmonized, so content with each other, and so comfortable that it almost hurt.

And it did hurt. I loved him so much that every time I looked at him it hurt, and something inside me ached, because I was that happy. It's like when you're so hot that you feel cold. Or when you're so bored, so often that it becomes a hobby. Or how when we don't eat or drink for too long, we'll stop being hungry or thirsty, because our organs are shutting down.

That's what it was. It was so beautiful, so great, so perfect, so immense, so consistent, so much to feel all at once that it made me feel everything. Such as sorrow, pain. I didn't understand it. I probably never would, but it felt so great to feel so good, I wouldn't dare question it.