Brooke Davis is, in all sense, awake. She finds herself in the ocean, the water rising up to her thighs. She thinks of it as a cleaning ritual and wonders amusingly how metaphorically this island has made her be. She will not say it out loud, but Brooke is grateful for her chance at metaphors. If it was not for the crash; her simplest ideas of metaphors would have been reduced to a mockery.
She rubs her wrists silently, the markings still present. They are red and raw, and Brooke ponders on whether anyone has them noticed or not. She is leaning towards the latter – everyone is too stressed on their own survival rather than the mysteries of their peers. Brooke, however, is reluctant to let her guard down. In fact, the day when Brooke lets her guard down is the day they dig up a grave for her.
Her small skirt whips around in the wind, and she is reminded of the shame she carries for wearing the clothes she does now. They are not hers, but of the deceased. There is no possibility that Brooke would walk around willingly in that mess of a pant suit she boarded on. Besides, this attire makes her look less suspicious than the other, and a raise of suspicion is exactly what she is trying to avoid.
Brooke lifts a foot out of the water, and she knows she's been in there for awhile as she wiggles her wrinkly toes. A girl like her wouldn't be able to stand having her skin turn raisin-like, but one must remember Brooke is thinking of metaphors – she is washing herself from a dirty past, and she thanks the island for letting her do so.
"Ms. Davis? Ms. Davis?"
Brooke stirred in her bed sheets, her fingers pushing up her eye mask. God, silk was so soft. She decided she would let Rosemerta call out her name a few more times before fully getting out of bed. The old maid was getting impatient, and Brooke smirked to herself before she finally pushed the comforter off of her. The morning coffee she requested was already set and ready on her night stand, and a new Chanel dress hung over her ornate dresser. It was green, and Brooke frowned lightly. She didn't want to wear green.
"Ms. Davis? You're fiancée has been calling for you."
"What does he want?" Brooke muttered, rubbing her temples in concentration. It took an alert mind to sort out Rosemerta's heavy accent.
"The Mr. Adams would like to know if he could escort you to the brunch at the Palace."
Brooke was awake now, and her eyes were heavy with burden. "I won't be able to make brunch. He knows that. You know that. I've had something scheduled this afternoon for months."
Rosemerta looked stunned for forgetting something. "I'm so sorry, Ms. Davis. Is my assistance still required of this morning?"
Brooke's head shook vigorously – almost too vigorously. "No. No, I don't want you at the house today. My father is coming home this afternoon, and we planned something special together. Take the day off, if you must." Her tone was casual, but she was avoiding looking the old maid in the eye. Rosemerta
nodded quickly, before Brooke had the chance to change her mind, and left the room. What the maid did not know was that Brooke truly had been planning this moment much of her life. She had been planning this ever since she had witnessed her father commit the ultimate crime. A crime of ignorance, affair, betrayal, and most importantly, abuse of a lonely daughter. Brooke Davis was a woman of pleasure; she liked things when they went her way. Anything that got in between that has a heavy debt to pay. She would make sure ofit.
"Are you okay?"
Brooke whips her head around in surprise, and she curses herself for acting so vigilant. But as she stares at Lucas Scott, she knows he is no harm. "Okay as I'll ever be here." He gives her an empathetic smile, and she is silently irked on how a man can be so sweet at such times. "I heard you guys found some fresh water."
Lucas nods eagerly. "Yeah, we did. Near some caves, about a mile past the beach." He pauses, as if hesitant about his next response. "I've been thinking of moving there."
Brooke raises an eyebrow. "In a cave?"
"Beats walking a mile to and back there every day."
She considers this for a second. "Not a lot of people are going to want to live in a cave."
"I'm just looking for reinforcements." They smile at each other in a civilized manner, and Brooke realizes she is still standing in the ocean. She stalks slowly up to him, the sun beaming down on her exposed legs, and she notices Lucas is staring. Brooke is about to make a witty comment, something along the lines of: 'You like what you see?' but Lucas beats her to it first. "Someone found these on the island."
Brooke's heart drops.
He hands her a pair of worn handcuffs. Very official looking, but blots of red damage it. She stares at it for a moment too long, but quickly refocuses on Lucas. "You know Jake? The one with the daughter? Well, his kid found this. Scared her to death. I'm not trying to advertise this out loud, because I don't want everyone getting worried. I was just wondering if you knew who these belonged to."
"Why are you asking me?" Her tone is too sharp.
Lucas looks taken back. He is thinking before he responds, and as he does, his words are spoken very sincerely. "I trust you for some reason."
Brooke glances back at the ocean. "You shouldn't trust people so quickly."
Lucas laughs an honest laugh. "I guess that's one of my downfalls. Look, if you just say you don't know whose it is, I won't bother you about it again."
"I don't know whose it is." He leaves, and Brooke returns to the ocean, in need of another cleaning.
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"What have you done!"
Brooke stood up. Blood that was not hers covered her body. The once ivory scented foyer was broken into a picture of misery, and Brooke fit the perfect description for the scene of the crime. Her father, Mr. Davis, the man praised in New York for being one of the smartest and richest in the city, was dead by the most brutal kind. Murder etched his body, blood spilled out from the chest of a gun-shot wound. His eyes were somewhat open, but he was long gone. All of this, however, did not stop his insides from continuing its way out, like angel hair pasta leaking through a drainer.
Brooke had a gun in her hand, a gun that had belonged to her own family. They were the type of clan to keep such a vicious thing in their home, but her father was in high enough places to get away with it. It was actually admirable that they kept such a weapon in stock; it made them look powerful, and it scared the weak.
"I didn't – "
"What do you mean you didn't! What do you think of your mother? Do you think I'm a blind idiot if I didn't know you just – oh, God. You just…" her mother stood with a mixture of shock, depression, and the utmost case of 'what will society think?'
"Mom, please, just lis – "
"I am not you're mother."
"Mom! I didn't do it, I swear!"
"Help! Somebody! Help! There is a murder in my house!"
Brooked backed away quickly, the gun still held tightly in her hand. Her red heels clicked sadistically against the marble flooring, and her pearls clinked together against the family heirloom on her chest. It was a shame that she did not choose to leave the gun behind – the police would find that the gun didn't even work in the first place. It was a fake, yet not to Brooke's knowledge.
Brooke Davis didn't kill her father, even if she tried.
"Can you help me with this?" Brooke calls out to Mouth, her arms heavy with cases. He is a bit stunned for a moment, astonished that someone has actually asks him for help. He runs over to her, a bit more anxious that usual, and grabs a couple of suitcases from her hands.
"I'm sorting out the luggage. Help the others find their own. The rest of it… well, we'll need to use the rest of it."
Mouth agrees with her quietly, and together, they place the belongings in rows, making it easier for the survivors to determine their own. Brooke glances at a fancy blue one, adorned with lavish patches of
bright cars and dinosaurs. The name 'James' is written on the baggage in complicated yellow stitching, and Brooke is distressed as she realizes no little boy named James is on the island.
"I found it!" Mouth suddenly exclaims, and Brooke turns to look at him. "My luggage. Nice to know it didn't blow up. I had a pair of socks in here I really liked."
Brooke doesn't know how to respond, so she giggles instead. "Well, what's life without your favorite pair of socks?"
Mouth sighs. "You have no idea." They continue to sort out their luggage, and Brooke does as much as possible to avoid looking over at James' little suitcase. It does not take her long to find many of the other passengers' belongings; she already has Nathan and his dad's, Rachel's, and the Jagielski family's. She lines them up neatly on the shore and brushes off the sand gingerly. "Find yours?" Mouth suddenly inquires, observing the tag of a faded suitcase.
Brooke shrugs and mulls over a cover up. "I can't find it. Maybe mine got blown up." Mouth looks sincerely sorry, but she shakes her head. "It's fine. I don't have any special socks." But he doesn't respond. Mouth looks from her, to the now open case, and back to her. Something new is in his eyes. "You all right, Mouth?" Brooke asks in slight concern. Mouth stumbles over his words for a moment before excusing himself of the sorting. She watches him depart in confusion, and it is only then when she realizes he was looking through the US marshal's bag, the one that arrested her.
She waited because she knew he would help her. He always had a soft spot for her, and truthfully, Brooke would always love him as well. It was such a delight of hers to meet up with him before, but now, it only served as a curse. She continued to wait in the silence. He was pushing the time, but Brooke would take her chances; he always showed.
Soon enough, a car came rolling by. It was a nice car – a shiny dark blue with beige leather interior. It was his dream car, Brooke knew it always was. He had told her since they were little that it was what he wanted most in the world, even though it was both their secret that they wanted each other more that anything. Time would roll on, and as the years trickled by, their fantasy would become true. Engagement bells rang, but the chance at wedding bells? They never got the chance.
"You're late," Brooke muttered as she pushed herself into the car.
"It's getting harder every time," Chase Adams whispered back, glancing behind his shoulder. "Especially since you switched locations on me at the last minute."
"What was I supposed to do? They were right on me!" Brooke retorted. "If you don't want to do this – "
"That's not the point, Brooke," Chase explained softly, and he put the car in drive. "I just can't keep up with you anymore."
"Then don't," she snapped, folding her arms across her chest. She was wearing too little at that time of night, and Chase knew what she was doing.
"You can come to me for money."
"I'm not taking your money, Chase."
"Well, I don't like you doing all this stuff!"
"It isn't your decision," Brooked huffed, leaning her forehead against the cold window. They sat without words, and each knew exactly what the other was thinking; they cared about each other too much not too.
"You can't keep running away, Brooke." He gazed her sadly. "You always want to, but the world is going to catch up to you one day."
"Then I'll just keep running," she mumbled harshly.
"Erica keeps wondering where I go," Chase changed the topic. "I missed Madison's ballet recital last week when you robbed that supermarket. Aaron had a class field trip that I promised to go to, but I had to get you out of Canada. Erica… she's smart. She doesn't want to say anything because she thinks I'm off doing things I shouldn't. The truth is, I don't know what's going on myself."
"I don't ask you to – "
"Yes, you do, Brooke," Chase sighed. She frowned at him, rubbing some red lipstick off her lips.
"Then why don't you say 'no' whenever I ask for your help?" she questioned, and her voice was very child-like.
"Because I'm in love with you, Brooke. You know I can't say no to you."
"Then why don't you believe me when I say I didn't kill my father!"
He didn't know how to answer this. They drove on for another full hour without speaking to each other, and Brooke was half asleep before he she heard the sweet sound of Chase's voice again. "I have something for you." He pulled out a small doll, small as his palm. "Victoria finally brought it upon her to destroy your room. It was the only thing I can swipe from your dollhouse." Brooke stared at the doll with wide eyes, her porcelain skin losing color.
"It was our dollhouse."
Chase laughed, and it was noticeable he had not laughed in awhile. "I hated it when you used to call it ours. It made me sound girly."
Brooke smiled, too. "You liked it. I know you did."
But Chase never got to finish his sentence. The police were behind them. They knew she, Brooke Davis, the murderer of her father, was in the car. They didn't even give them a warning. Bullets shattered the glass, and they were spinning. They collided unwillingly with the authority, and she heard their engine
stop. She leaned over and grabbed hold of the wheel and drove them off course and down the dirt for safety. Brooke held her breath for a full 5 minutes and realized that the police car was also still. She turned towards Chase with a look of relief, but what she saw wasn't Chase. Blood covered every inch of him, and Brooke shivered in her seat with fear. She found it necessary to cry and pity her loved one, but how much time would it be until the police awaken from their unconsciousness? Had backup already been called? She ran a caring hand through his hair, and Brooke found her lips gently grazing his forehead –her lipstick was red anyways. But she knew what must be done. It was for her own safety. She felt the tears tickle her eyes, and it wasn't long before Brooke sobbed as she reached into Chase's pockets and took out the remainder of his money. She needed a way to get out of the state, and as wrong as her way to get it was, Brooke needed it more than anything.
As she tip-toed out of the vehicle, she would run as far and fast as she could until another escape came to her. Brooke was very good at running.
---------
Brooke is unsure on how to handle her predicament. The island, the island is different. She is aware that she has the ability to concoct a perfect plan to make whatever problem she faces as innocent as possible. They others do not know what she has done or what she is capable of. No, her mother would have taken care of that. Victoria would have made the hunt for Brooke as subtle as possible. Her father was dead, but why spoil the good Davis family name?
She is closer to the jungle than the beach, and she wonders anxiously where Mouth is. Who has he told? What has he told? But as she strolls deeper into the unknown, she is astounded to see that she is not running yet.
Her hands are enveloped around two bags, and she drags it carefully behind her. She nears the blonde girl with curly hair, and a friendly smile outlines her lips. "Your name is Peyton, right? Peyton Sawyer?"
Peyton acknowledges her and nods. Her hands are rough as she is gathering some wood for the fire. "Yeah. You're Brooke."
"This is yours." Brooke hands her the black backpack, and something in Peyton's eyes light up.
"You found it!" she exclaims eagerly, grabbing it out of Brooke's hands.
"I thought Lucas didn't have to be the only hero," she laughs with dimples.
Peyton holds it very delicately, savoring the new discovery of lost and found. She peeks at Brooke abruptly. "Wanna see what's inside?" Brooke shrugs, and Peyton zips the carrier open. Inside are countless albums, all with a very neat and cared for appearance.
"Nice collection, P. Sawyer." Peyton stares at her funny. "I'm good with nicknames," Brooke explaines
"Okay," she laughs, her corkscrew curls bouncing. "So you're B….?"
"Brooke!" a voice calls in the distance, and she is saved by the island once more. Brooke provides an impromptu good-bye to Peyton and hurries off, the remaining case trailing behind her. In a matter of seconds she comes face to face with Lucas, who has built himself a small camp.
"What happened to the caves, gorgeous?"
"Not enough reinforcements."
Brooke laughs at his lame response and sits down next to him. "This might make you feel better. I found your pack." She offers him the dark brown suitcase, but he seems unaffected by it. "What's the matter? You don't want it? You know, I'll take – "
"Mouth found something."
For the second time today, her heart drops. And for the second time today, it's Lucas who causes it.
He pulls out a manila envelope, and Brooke immediately knows what it is. Something is bulging out from the bottom, and Brooke longs to hold it, longs to touch it. Her fingers reach out without conscious, but Lucas doesn't restrain. He lets her seize it with haste, the desire in her heart obvious. She is mystified by the envelope, and Lucas sits in knowledge.
Alas, there it is. A tiny little doll, about the size of a palm, and it is in Brooke's hands. She thinks of Chase and doesn't even realize what else is in the envelope. Her mug-shot slips out under her radar, and her eyes scan the doll hungrily; she can't get enough.
"You said you didn't know whose handcuffs they were." A perfect moment ruined by a perfect lie.
"And I also said you shouldn't trust people so easily." Lucas is silent, and Brooke takes her time examining the doll. It is dirty, and there are several tears around the edges. She knows there are some blood stains, but she denies herself to take a glimpse at them. "If you want me to tell you what I did, I will."
Lucas remains silent, and Brooke appreciates it. She places the doll down on her lap and takes hold of her picture and stares at the girl she used to be. The danger drips out of her eyes in the picture, and Brooke considers the idea if she still happens to appear with such indignity now. She peers over at Lucas, who is staring at the sand, and Brooke purses her lips. "I don't think it matters, anymore," Lucas starts slowly. "What you did. Who you were. I don't think any of the real world matters here. What I did, who I was. When we crashed, we already died. Three days ago, we were new again. We can start over, and we can be a better person than before."
Brooke watches him as he speaks, and she feels herself easily put into relief. She is entranced by his words, and Brooke muses to herself that maybe crash-landing onto the island was a good thing. She is in need of a rebirth more than anyone, and Lucas is genuine enough to tell it to her face. She smiles at him, and he smiles back, and they watch the sun go down together as new people.
Brooke sat on the porch, watching the sun go down. He said he'd be right back, and it was only natural for her to grow suspicious. Yet Owen was a good man with a good heart; Brooke felt remorseful for taking advantage of such a man. She was almost positive she felt something for him. Something…
"I got you some food." There he was. Voice as gruff as always, but in a friendly way that Brooke came to like.
"I'm not that hungry," she responded in a lie. She wanted to see how far he would go to give her what she wanted. It was a little trick she liked to play when she got bored.
"You should eat something. It's good. I made it myself." Brooke stared at the sandwich and gave him a flirtatious smile before taking a bite. However, he seemed to miss this. In fact, he was giving Brooke absolutely no attention at all. It was odd; Owen always flattered her with compliments. She demanded to know his change of heart.
She tried to take a peek at what he was looking at. He was gazing out on the road, staring at entirely nothing. Brooke squinted her pretty green eyes in determination, but came up with nothing. "What are you staring at?" she asked bluntly.
"What?" His voice was quick, and he looked at Brooke angelically. His gaze didn't rest on her long as he switched his gaze back at the empty road. Then Brooke knew it: he was waiting for something.
She stood up cautiously, tossing over the sandwich. "How long have you known?"
He did not say anything at first, but there was no use in covering up the truth. Brooke was the kind of girl who would found out everything eventually. He would not delay her suffering. "A woman named Victoria called me. She knew I was with you." His tone was laced with guilt.
There was more to his story, but she didn't want to hear anymore. It took her only minutes to grab her things together, and she squeezed her eyes tight as she remembered the day she entered Owen's bar, and how a small bond grew between them. Brooke should have know that he was the good guy, and she was the bad girl, and those two never mixed. Good always wins, and the bad wither in isolation. But as she barged through the door, the police had already arrived, and she was slammed unkindly against the coarse floor with her hands held behind her back. She could hear Owen's obsessive apologies and explanations, and she snubbed to sympathize with his pains. They were taking her away to Sydney for trial, but she already knew that it was truly jail that awaited her.
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Brooke holds the doll in her hands, and Lucas is separating the useful and the not useful clothes from the unclaimed baggage. She wants to say something to him, or maybe even help with his sorting, but she cannot bring herself to do so. All she can thing about is the doll, and how wherever it goes, it brings her both good and bad fortune. She feels Lucas glancing at her every now and then, mostly likely to check on her stability. Brooke never returns those glances, because she likes the feeling of Lucas caring about her.
She hasn't felt that in awhile.
She begins to say something, perhaps to thank him of his warmness, but something else beats her to it. "I fixed it! Lucas!" Skills is calling from across the beach, and the rest of the survivors gather around him. Brooke and Lucas exchange looks of awe, and together, they dash towards Skills in a hurry, and she tucks the doll in her pocket. "Hurry! I don't want it to run out of battery!" But his next words are swallowed by another sound. Something, something so ghastly and heart wrenching and disturbing that it echoes throughout the whole island, and every former passenger gazes into the depths of the jungles in fear of sounds of a monster.
"Spectacular," breathes Chris Keller, and the rest of the group shudders in fear of the malicious noise. Brooke takes out the doll from her pocket. Both good and bad follows her, and maybe the island isn't on her side. Yet Brooke is a woman of pleasure, and she always gets her way.