Eleven: Midnight





My phone pathetically wailed, lurching me from my daze. Andrea? Blinking the sleep out of my eyes, I fumbled for it and proceeded to flip it open. It gave another quick sob, dying letters telling me that it was only out of battery. No texts, no messages, no Andrea.




I fell back on the couch, yawning sleepily despite my inherent worry. Where was she? Why was she acting so odd all of a sudden? What was with the appearance of the Lucas guy, the figure who seemed to bring on this mess? If he was hurting her in any way, if he had anything to do with this unusal behavior, I would smash his face in.


Wow. That sounded violent.


My poor phone cried out again. "Shut up," I grumbled irritably, roughly turning it off and tossing it aside before laying back on the sofa pillows. Impatient, I glanced at the clock's electric ruby letters again. Maybe I should go looking for her ... where would I start...?

I ran my hands over my face. No. She was a big girl. She could manage herself.


She doesn't want my help.


I took up the TV remote and flicked on the news, drifting into an uneasy sleep to its bright neon light and muffled murmur.

I was awakened by the door that morning, gently closing. Blinking open my eyes, I heard the soft feet of Andrea tip-toeing over the carpet. I sat up, my voice still groggy, my eyes adjusting to the dawn's fresh light.



The End

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