Echo

Chapter Eight

I stopped thinking about it.

About the Rose. About Thorn.

I threw myself into everything. Three weeks of Tim and I going swimming, shopping, the cinema. I think it was safe to say we were an item, all be it an unofficial couple, not that anyone at school cared. We hadn’t kissed; we hadn’t even talked about it. Instead, we just enjoyed each other’s company.

You’re beginning to sound like an old person, Rayne.

In those three weeks, I hadn’t seen him. The oh so popular Mr Willis had, according to the head teacher, quit school due to the students not co-operating. Although from what I had observed in his lessons which I, thanks to the law, am obliged to go too, every student sat down and listened to him teach, even smiling whilst doing so.

The perks of impersonating an attractive being, Mr Willis, I mean. Not Thorn.

I shivered, his name sent terror from the tip of my spine all the way down to my coccyx.

I knew he hadn’t gone because of the students, or even the usual reason why teachers quit, an illness. Thorn was planning something, and I sure as hope it didn’t involve me.

And I sure as hope it doesn’t happen today, because today is Sunday, a day for peace.

A day for rest.

Sunday was a day for my brain to shut down and for my whole being to collapse onto the plush cream sofa and think of nothing but Tim, TV and the deliciously tempting tub of Ben and Jerry’s salted caramel core ice cream, which was currently lying unopened in the freezer.

Bliss.

Laying my head back onto the sofa, I left my hand to search around for the remote which was hiding somewhere between the large cushions. After minutes of searching my fingers finally gripped onto the cool plastic allowing me to switch on an old episode of Teen Wolf, a paranormal show I could get enjoyment out of.

Werewolves, I laughed at the possibility. Nothing ever comes of thinking that something like that, or any other mythical creatures was around; this world was humans, animals and insects. Nothing else.

Not even the Grim Reaper.

Or Thorn.

Was he even real? Yes.

Was he even male? Yes.

Was he even human?

And stop right there, Rayne.

Sighing, I swivelled around to lay with my spine against the back of the sofa, shutting my eyes and letting the delightful sound of Dylan O’Brien’s voice relax me. The background noise, the static on the TV all added up to a light hum, the only sounds to my lullaby.

I drifted.

For about ten seconds.

“Rayne?! Rayne?!” My perfectly timed mothers voice rang out from the landing. “Rayne?!” She continued, oblivious to the fact that I had found the comfiest position on the sofa, head mashed into one of the cream pillows, feet tangled in the fluffy throw.

“What?” I croaked out, my voice scratching with every letter.

“Rayne?!” She blew out again. Why don’t parents walk to their own children when they want to speak to them? They should stop shouting and maybe, just maybe, do that small bit of exercise that consists of about 20 steps.

“What?” I dragged out, my voice ridden with annoyance as I heard here footsteps plodding down the stairs.

Finally.