Dark Secrets

Tell Me Everything

Before you read this chapter feel free to go back an re-read a few chapters because I have changed some events, grammar mistakes and I changed Greenfield to Overland

Eve :)

I sit down on the cheap plastic chair, staring lifelessly at the dents where her fingers were. The silence of the empty room is as deafening as a stampede of trumpeting elephants. It echoes throughout my skull, my heart pounds a hundred times a second. Even when I was little, I never believed in magic. Ghosts or Zombies never bothered me; I always knew the tooth fairy and Santa were lies from the start. The only worry i had was burglars and murderers, real things. But what Cynthia had done, the past few days... that wasn't real, it wasn't logical.

 And it scared me.

 Who is she, no, what is she. If she is she even human. Normal humans don't have eyes that go as dark as night and fingers that melt through tables... And who knows what she wrote in that diary, curses, spells?! And who knows what twisted things she keeps in that scarlet bag... the bag... she never took it with her.

 I turn and see the bag were she left it, leaning against the leg of her plastic chair. It is wide open. I know that it is rude to look through a lady's bag, but the curiosity nagged at me like a needy child pulling on his mother's sleeve.

 I stepped cautiously towards the bag, all the fear that I missed out on as a child due to of me not believing in magic hitting me like a train. What were the limits of this power... had she put a spell on the bag? If I touched it, would I catch on fire? disappear in a puff of smoke? My hand trembled as I slowly reached forward and touched the bag...and nothing happened. I picked up the bag and carefully peered inside. The diary stared back at me. It seemed almost sinister, like the every fold, every rip, was holding a secret of its own. I carefully picked it up. Every muscle in my body screamed at me to open it, to read through all of her personal thoughts and find out what had been going on the past few days. But my mind and morals screamed at me to put it down and walk away.

 With a sigh I shoved the diary into the bag. I zipped it up and peered at the name tag at the front. "Cynthia Rose" I murmured, reading out loud "24 Albert Rd, Overland. I peer at my watch, only now realising that I should be in class. The period I was missing was history. No problem with missing that, I just fall asleep in class anyway with the way Mrs Brown drones on and on. I quickly sling Cynthia's bag over my shoulder and sprint out of the cafeteria.

 My car is not the most attractive car in the school parking lot, in fact, its probably the ugliest. Its a hand-me-down Mitsubishi Van from my older brother Lucas, who left to Vegas 3 years ago with some girl he got pregnant. We haven't seen him since. The tail lights are smashed and its missing one of the seats in the back, ripped out in a drunken haze probably. He probably found it and a junk yard and had one of his dodgy friends fix it up for him, or stole it. I wouldn't put it past him; he wasn't exactly a stranger to stealing. It's framed by rust and though once a snowy white, it is now so blanketed in dirt and dust that it could pass for grey.

 I sigh and open the door, chucking the bag into the back. The back of my van is probably the messiest place to be, yet it's my favourite. Its littered with beanbags, video games and pillows, a PlayStation and mini TV carefully strapped to the behind of the car seats. It was either the TV in the house or in here, and I picked the latter. It was the only place I could escape my parents deafening arguments and now it's the only place I can escape the sickly sweet stench of my obnoxious Step Mothers' perfume that she sprays throughout the house. Given the choice I would sleep in the Van, but Dad says that I'm to be social and join in with the daily family debate on current events and politics. That's the sort of person my Dad is, a strict business man who is obsessed with family image. I swear he was glad when Lucas left, he was an embarrassment of him. A long messy haired, drummer in a band, son that slept around was not the family image that Dad wanted. My Step Mother is a blonde cow who wears faux fur and so much make up and fake tan that she resembles a Barbie Doll. I wish that she'd swallow some of that make-up so that she could be pretty on the inside too.