Chapter 8: Before.

WARNING: This chapter displays scenes that may make the viewer uncomfortable.

Once I had been kicked out of that wretched place, I was home-scot free. There were no rules to stop me from doing whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.

Firstly, after I had gotten myself a therapist (thanks to the orphanage that had also found out about my encounter with Corbyn), I had found myself a homeless shelter.

The people there were ravenous, however sweet. They were mindless, though, and once they had their food, they simply sat down and stared into empty space. It made me wonder if I would turn out to be just like them, or if I would have my own story play out within due time.

Every now and again, I would try my luck and pick-pocket people when passed through the busy streets of New York. Of course, they never noticed due to the sheer number of people that passed them, however I always managed to feel guilty when I got back to the shelter. That didn't stop me from keeping the money, though.

"Emilie!" One of the female volunteers, Tilly, had called, beckoning me over, which I hesitantly listened to. She was a middle-aged woman, with grey streaks running through her chesnut, pinned back hair. A lovely lady, though she was stern when speaking, which was probably because most homeless people here liked to push their luck.

"Yes...?" I whispered. Since the incident with Corbyn, I had become a lot more comfortable with females, meaning that I could actually speak fluent English to most women, and sound like retarded when speaking to men.

"There's a new volunteer we'd like you to meet. His name is Enricho, and he comes from Brazil. Make him feel welcome, yeah?" She was one of the few volunteers that knew about my situation, knowing I wasn't fond of most men, this must've been an exception. Maybe his ego won't be so far up his ass he can think straight. I simply nodded in response.

A minute later, a tanned man walked in from the back, wearing a grey apron over some black jeans and navy t-shirt. His black buzz-cut complimented his complexion, however he was a skinny man, at around my height. And trust me, I wasn't too short, if I do say so myself.

"Hi, you must be..." He had clearly forgotten, trying to desperately scrounge his memory. "Emilie?" And at that moment, I knew exactly why Tilly had introduced us. He was gay.

"Correct." I had swiftly eased up, smiling at him. "And you are presumably Enricho." I could already tell we would get on like two peas in a pod. The aura that surrounded him was relaxing and his scent was woodsy, making me immediately open up to him.

"Also correct." Enricho laughed, a contagious one at that. I soon joined in, and it had been the first time I'd laughed for at least eight years, since I was last with my family.

"Do you want to, maybe, go for a drink?" He had suggested with a smile, and I was quick to nod in agreement.

"Starbucks?"

"That is the only place I would willingly go for coffee."

After that, we had soon become the best of friends within a matter of months. He was frustratingly nice and knew exactly how to cheer me up, and vice-versa. We were certainly going to be best-friends for life, at least until the accident had happened.

One night we had gotten extra drunk, swaying around the streets of New York. Nobody was around at midnight, except for the occasional car that passed us by, we even tried for a cab at one point because my feet were in excruciating pain from the stilettos I had worn.

Instead of waiting on the left side for a cab to pull over to us, we decided it'd be best to cross over and try to get a cab from that side. However, thanks to my awful choice in shoes, it had cost both Enricho and I.

While we were crossing the large road, a car had come speeding along, not noticing us until the very last minute. We had both been hit, Enricho more so than I.

So, when we had both woken up in hospital, I was alive and somehow fully healed. At the time, I hadn't questioned it because I didn't know how long I'd been there for, but when I noticed Enricho wasn't beside me, and that what had happened wasn't a dream, I realised something.

Thanks to my stupidity, he had been killed in a car crash. The bestest friend I had ever met, had been killed, thanks to me.

Soon after, I had nightmares about it. They were karma for being such an idiot. Why had we gotten drunk? Why hadn't we just headed back to the homeless shelter? Why had he been the one to die and not I? Why, why, why were the many questions going through my head at the time. The 'what if's' were killing me.

I was alone, again.

And it was all my fault.

Everything was: from my sister and mother's death, to being raped and then to getting my best friend killed. The only friend I had ever had. The one true person who understood me, other than the family that I once had.