Mirrors

It's 1964 and Mila has moved from the ukraine to England. She moves into an mansion, in the heart of the Dales, to be percific were the bronte sisters lived. The ghosts of anne, charlotte and Emily haunt the house. But the brother Branwell, is making it hard for her. He tells her on her first night that there will be a murder in the village of a woman named Geogie mills, will she see the culprit? and if she does, will the culprit do to her before she tells the police?

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41. wounds

My eyes flickered open to the sight of my room, in which before was deathly cold, but now held a continuous heat of a nice warm feeling. I smiled, fogetting the prior incident when father had shouted at me, telling me that I'm 'a worthless piece of scum'. Soon, this sarcastic and evil memory began to reminise once again, reavling a nasty ball of hatred in the pit of my stomach.

"Are you allright?" A voice asked.

I looked up, matching the face who infact spoke to me. Declan seemed concerened, actually concerned. I smiled at him.

"I shouldn't of told you what happened......." My voice croaked.

"We would've found out later, if it wasn't for you Mila. Trust me, you did do the right thing by telling us, we've been mourning over a woman who wasn't our mother."

"I know, but the worst part is, that I was forced to help, it was a planned murder Declan, it was planned. I'm 14 Declan, I could actually be arrested for the crime that I did, my DNA is all over the knife or the gun my dad had used."

I didn't tell him that I was shot by his uncle, but mind you- I bet he didn't even know that Darius had a brother and infact, I didn't want to tell him because of what might happen. I may be attacked by an evil ninja who in turn may end up being the ghost of my mother coming to save me. I sniggered at my last thought.

"What's that?" Declan asked, interupting my trail of thought.

I  looked at my right shoulder. The dent of the bullet had left it's mark alongside some VERY deep and endless stiches that surrounded it, which I guessed it would be from the knife that had slit my skin. The circle was deep and bruised, very painfull to touch.

"No it isn't, is it, he didn't shoot you, did he?" His voice became high pitched.

In reply, I noded. Someone did shoot me, but I survived, someone did slit my back, stomach and shoulders with a knife, but I survived.

But why? Did I have to endure any more pain?

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