Shattered (Completed)

Chapter 5 - The Odd Woman and Boy

He enters with big boots, thumping heavily against the old wooden floor. His steps are slow. 

I'm terrified. I can't see who's approaching. The mirror is broken, the bullet having shattered it. All I see is red and blue. Red shirt and blue jeans. My breathing is crazy right now. I'm having trouble regaining oxygen. My eyes are wide, hands pressed firmly against the broken mirror. They fall to the ground and stare at my black socks I just discovered.

"You're not supposed to be standing, isn't that right?" asks a boy's voice. Mature, but not as old as my first visitor. The question rattles me. Is he concerned for me? Or just trying to be rude, acting like he knows more than me? 

"What were you told?" I manage to respond. My eyes haven't left the floor. Perhaps I'm too scared to look at the stranger. Or perhaps I'm just embarrassed of the fact that I probably shouldn't be standing. But then it strikes me - how does he know about me? It makes me wonder if everyone does. Am I the 'new news' around the building? I close my eyes. Too much.

"I was told that you shouldn't be stand- " He begins.

But I cut him off before he can continue his stupid sentence. This is the part when I want to slap him right across his face. Just thwap. 

"Can we skip to the part where we acknowledge the fact that a bullet nearly went through my neck?" I snap, squeezing my eyes shut in rage. I receive a piercing headache because of this shout. Slowly, I take deep breaths and relax my eyes. "You literally could have killed me," This is said a bit more calmly.

"I. . . Know," says the boy. He inhales a soft breath. Then a hand is on my shoulder. It's warm, resulting in comfort. I flinch by contact. I guess I'm not used to having others touch me at all, since I don't remember it before. The Cylinder shattering and the person carrying me was an exception because a) I was too weak to even flinch b) it was a 'loving' touch, and c) it was helpful. But this is a hand on the shoulder. Only b counts in this situation. "We got off on the wrong foot, alright?"

It takes me a moment to respond. Still, my eyes are closed and my hands are against the broken mirror, arms stretched out, supporting me. I don't change that. "I remember the boy that came in this room without knocking. I think he put a bullet through the mirror. And then he came at me with rude responses. . . Do you remember that boy?" I raise an eyebrow. I hope this isn't too rude. I honestly don't want to be kicked out of this place because I was rude to one of the other people.

"I know, Alexandria. Here, let me introduce myself." I open my eyes as he says this and stare at him quietly. He knows my name. But is that an of course? Like, of course he knows my name? Does everyone in this building know my name? 

More questions. I'm piled under them, drowning in confusion. This is what happens when you're gone for six years, I suppose. One of the downsides. But there really aren't any upsides to it. 

"My name is Evan," he tells me slowly. And now that I see him, I'm honestly confused. Here is his appearance: Blond, nearly white hair, caught up in a messy tangle of knots or something. It seems as if he just came back from falling into the dirt, because his face and clothing are covered in dirt and sweat. His shirt, as said, is red, and he wears blue jeans torn a bit. But I guess his eyes really shock me - they're the absolute palest brown I've ever seen. They look like. . . Oh, it's a liquid that you drink, and you add honey to it and heat it up, or you add chocolate? It's passed my mind, of course, but I know what it looks like. It looks like that liquid but with a dab of chocolate in it. They're gorgeous. "Evan White,"

I've heard the name. I swear to God I have heard that name.  Evan White. It reminds me of a. . . Fence. A white fence, with the greenest of grass on both sides. A concrete sidewalk running from an old wooden porch connected to a white house  on both sides. And then a ball flying from one side to the other. The thrower is anonymous as well as the catcher. But the ball stops and so does the memory as soon as it reaches half of the other side.