8.

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The next morning, Amelia woke up in a bed with a pounding headache and a throb in her fingertips. That should have alerted her right away that something wasn't right, but instead she rolled over in the bed and stared up at the ceiling, breathing in the scent around her. It was comforting, whatever it was; a combination of sandalwood, pine and Axe body-wash. She turned on her side and burrowed further into the sheets, bringing a hand up to her face. It was then that she paused.

What?

On her right index, ring and middle finger, as well as her the pad of her left thumb and pinky were bright blue and red Spiderman plasters. She stared at them curiously, gazing at the little red spiders and the masked comic-book hero. Shifting in the bed, she sat up.

Where was she?

Suddenly, it all came back to her. The house, Tom's betrayal, Olly's confessions. She felt dizzy and pressed a hand to her forehead, yelping when it hurt. That's right...the paper-cuts. She had trashed Tom's room. She took in her surroundings.

She wasn't in a trashed bedroom.

Her eyes felt puffy and sore as she blinked, trying to get her bearings. Instead of sitting in the middle of feathers, glass and paper, she was on a bed. In a strange room. She sat up further and looked out the window. It was overlooking the guys' backyard. Well, she was still in the house, at least.

She shouldn't feel this numb. She should be crying, shouldn't she? She shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself. She hated this feeling; this feeling that something was completely and utterly wrong and there was no chance in hell it could be repaired.

Tom had been unfaithful, point blank. He had spent the last year and a half flying back and forth between Albuquerque and Los Angeles, sleeping with Shannon, the blonde dance instructor and then coming home to her. She scoffed, rubbing at her tried eyes and wishing things were different.

She wanted to cry. She wanted to yell and scream again, but she couldn't find her voice and the tears weren't coming. She was spent. She had gone the last three months feeling broken over a man she had thought she was going to spend the rest of her life with. Yet the whole time, he had a secret double life.

She wondered momentarily if she would have ever found out. If years down the road with two and a half kids and a white picket fence, she would discover a voicemail or a photograph. She wondered if they would have even made it to the alter.

Either way they hadn't and now she was left with this hole in her chest and this numb feeling that was settling in around her, debating whether or not it wanted to be permanent. She thought of her late fiancee, his grin and slicked back black hair, his deep brown eyes and she felt angry.

Fuck him.

Running a hand through her hair, she glanced around, trying to find some sign as to where she was. The walls were painted a dark charcoal colour and the sheets she was lying in were white, a stark contrast to the black duvet over her figure. A sleek black dresser and desk were on the other side of the room, a silver iBook perched on top with an iPod dock next to it. Over the dresser was a collage of black and white photos and in the corner by the closet was a stack of wires and electrical equipment. It was the camera and the grey trilby on the night-table beside her that tipped her off.

Olly's room.

Swinging her legs over the bed, Amelia noticed there was a band of gauze around her shin from where the glass had pierced her last night, fastened with more Spiderman plasters. She frowned again. Why was she in Olly's room and why did it appear that she had gone for a trip at the baby doctor? Shuffling over to the other side of the room, she surveyed the belongings on top of the desk. There was a brown leather watch, the band and face large. There were stacks of paper with scribbled words across their lines and an empty Coke can. On on top of the dresser was a thick leather book. Picking it up in her hands, Amelia realized it was a portfolio, the same one he had been flipping through when he came home yesterday.

love came calling, twice // olly mursWhere stories live. Discover now