January 26th
Margaret:
I keep going to the volleyball game hoping that Mr. Thornton doesn't show up again and my wish is granted. I often see the blond man who was with him, although I don't say hello... we haven't been introduced and I have no idea if he knows who I am or cares enough to stop and chat. People here are way more straightforward in their ways and I don't want my intentions to be mistaken, so I stick to what I feel to be safer. Nothing personal.
Once or twice on my way from the locker room to the volley game I think I see Mr. Thornton playing basketball or football. I know he drives a silver grey BMW but the one in the parking lot might be someone else's.
Mr. Thornton... sometimes I wonder why he insists on arguing and discussing everything so thoroughly, if regardless of what I say he swats my opinions as if they were annoying flies. If he wants to drive the point of the strength of his convictions, well, thank you very much. Point taken.
Milton's January weather is bleak: cold, windy and rainy and this week has had plenty of all three. Today is Wednesday and people seek refuge from the streets, which are almost empty long before midnight. I'm heading for home and am ready to cross the street towards the bus stop, when I see Bessy's red moped but I don't recognize the driver.
Although my friend has been known to lend her vehicle to her father and sister, none of them seem to be the driver and I'm afraid it's been stolen. Not knowing exactly what to do I keep my eyes on it - not a difficult task because it's rolling to a stop on the curb only ten meters away. Two people get off it; they seem to be two young men with small backpacks. They're wearing full black clothes and instead of helmets, black hats and scarves covering most of their faces. It's winter, yet that particular detail is a very bad omen. They look around but I don't think they've noticed me, my spot darkened by a tree.
They advance stealthily to the parking lot and place themselves behind the bushes next to the BMW. After a moment of hesitation, right when I decide to cross the street I hear someone getting out the gym through the parking lot's door. It's Mr. Thornton. And he walks to his car.
Adrenaline rushes through my body and my senses are heightened. I've never experienced fear of this magnitude before: images flash through my mind, of Mr. Thornton lying on the black wet pavement in a pool of blood, his face disfigured, his limbs awkwardly positioned, my father losing his only friend in Milton. Fate has decided I will be the only person who could thwart this attack on an innocent unsuspecting person, and right now in my mind there are no options.
Taking advantage of the cover of darkness I approach them. Mr. Thornton is placing his bag in the trunk of his car. When he slams it close he finds himself flanked by two black silhouettes brandishing what looks like tools, maybe monkey wrenches. Seems that one is going to immobilize Mr. Thornton while the other attacks, but what do I know.
I run towards them yelling from the top of my lungs. What do I say, I have no idea. All three men turn to look at me, and I hurl myself at the one with the monkey wrench. He strikes back.
Shrieking bolts of pain shoot from my head straight to my toes. I fall to my knees, scrapping my hand with the back bumper or the gravel on the pavement, plunging into darkness and confusion.
I vaguely hear the light rushed footsteps of the attackers fleeing in different directions. I think Mr. Thornton is going to run after one of them but he helps me stand up instead. My head aches horribly and I think I'm bleeding. My limbs aren't in awkward angles, though. I think I laugh at that but Mr. Thornton looks horrified. Maybe he is afraid of blood or maybe he's angry at me. I'm sure he thinks he could have handled it on his own and I would probably agree. I feel really stupid. He opens the trunk of his car and hands me something clean and white, maybe a t-shirt, and I'm not sure what to do with it but I press it over the left side of my face, which is starting to feel wet, warm and sticky.
I'm dizzy again and he takes me up in his arms as if I weighed nothing and walks back to the gym. When I come round I'm laying on one of the sofas at the lounging area, a person in white coat is flashing a little light into my eyes and there's a soft murmur in the background. Not without some effort I sit and look around. The doctor asks some questions and I reply making sure I state that I want to go home.
The doctor tells me they're taking me to the hospital instead - but if everything is alright I'll be home tonight. Fortunately Mr. Thornton is not on sight and as I climb the ambulance I assume he's done and gone.
At the hospital they clean my wound, which is just a graze, and a traumatologist checks my bones and joints. Everything seems in order but she tells me I'm in shock and I'll be in pain later. Another doctor gives me a baseline test for concussions and believes I'm not in danger. They give me a painkiller and I sink into the drug's torpor.
There's a soft beeping sound in the background. The smell of hospital, that particular mixture of bleach, vinyl and central heating attacks my nostrils. My adrenaline rush is gone and worry over my parents overwhelms me. I need to go home.
Someone strokes my hair, very, very softly. A finger curls a lock around it and lets it slip quietly. I wait for a repeat but it doesn't come. I open my eyes and I see Mr. Thornton sitting on a plastic chair by my side, arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed on a point on the floor. He seems deep in thought or maybe tired or bored, or all three. A nurse approaches and he stands and leaves my side without looking back.
Not far from me there's another patient. It's an old, wizened lady breathing through an oxygen mask. When she notices I'm awake she waves friendly and I think she smiles. She folds her hands under her chin and blinks repeatedly, a dramatical gesture of rapture that reminds me of Betty Boop. "You are one lucky girl" she says removing her mask for a moment and winking. I don't know what luck there is in being battered and concussed so I guess she might be delusional.
A while later he's still not back. Actually I'm not sure he was here at all or it was just a figment of my imagination, or maybe it was somebody else so when a doctor comes and discharges me I hop on a taxi and go home. When I arrive the kitchen's clock marks 2.31 AM: I shower quickly and go to bed but sleep eludes me. The elderly patient's words repeat with the insistence of a drum roll, and frankly, I feel ashamed like never before. I wish I won't have to look Mr. Thornton in the eye for days, weeks if that's possible, or not again in this lifetime if that isn't much to ask.
I also hope I don't look too awful. I don't want to worry my mother needlessly.
Note: The original scene is a lot more complex and I just took one little aspect for this version. This chapter was heavily edited on account of some reader's comment and I hope it's more believable now.