The Misunderstanding of Fate

Chapter 7 - Reactions and Overreactions

After fifteen minutes, I start to recognise certain street names. From my estimates, we should be about five minutes away from my house. More specially, my shower. George hasn't spoken during the entire drive and, for once, I'm not thankful. If he had spoken, he would have annoyed me and that would have erased Walter's smile from my mind. I let out another sigh as I watch the different neighbourhoods float past the window. There! That was my street. Wait, that was my street. Frowning, I twist my head away from the window and towards the driver. George's face remains blank, at first, and I consider that he may have accidentally missed my stop. As I continue to stare, I notice the hint of a smirk appear on his lips. Ugh, he knew I was looking at him. From the look in his eyes, I conclude that he definitely knew where we were going.

I open my mouth to begin the argument but pause. My interest in his life reappears at the thought of getting a peak inside George's personal space. Would it be dark and broody, like him? Would it have clutter and mess all around? Or would it be blank? And who did he live with? Friends? He's old enough to have moved out. Perhaps he lives alone... the thought unnerves me as I mentally imagine George and me in a random kitchen. To keep my composure, I remain silent. George makes a left turn into a similar looking neighbourhood to mine about ten minutes away from where I should be. I watch as he pulls into a familiar driveway, parks in a familiar position and gives me a familiar smirk. My eyes take in the image of him sitting comfortably in his car in front of his house. Until now, I hadn't imagined him as a person with a life. He was just the scary stranger that people talked about.

We make our way inside the house with George's hand around my waist, pulling me along the path and through the front door. As we climb the stares, with my eyes jumping around the surroundings, he insists that this way I could shower and change before returning home to my dad. It was quite the considerate excuse as I would now possibly avoid the unwanted questioning. Yes, it was considerate but I also knew better than to believe that was his only reasoning.

When we reach his bedroom, I notice I have yet to hear anyone moving around in the house.

"So, uh, where are your parents?"

George scoffs at the question, "Not here."

My thoughts are confirmed, "Where are they?"

He shrugs, "Doesn't matter." My eyebrows furrow at that. If he kept confusing me, I'd need botox by the time I'm twenty one. He catches on to my confusion and, after a few moments of silence, he elaborates, "I don't live with them, Luna."

That only encourages more questions, "Wh-"

"Enough."

His tone is similar to the one he used at my front door and it silences me instantly. Not from fear, I didn't think, but perhaps from intimidation. Besides, if he didn't want to talk about it then that was his decision. Like my decision to not acknowledge my mother.

George goes into the ensuite, leaving me to take in the surroundings. The house was simple, not plain, and very much like him. Surprisingly, there's not much black used (I'm being stereotypical, I know, but he did like that colour). Instead, he has a mostly white and grey room with dashes of blue. I thought seeing his home would settle some of the questions in my mind but they seem to inspire more. How did he afford this? Did he have a job as well as going to sixth form? Did he cook for himself everyday? What did he like to cook? Was he lonely in this house by himself? How many bedrooms did he have? Did he have a spare room? If so, what does he used it for? Did he decorate and paint this whole place? Who helped?

When he reappears, George seems to have calmed down quite a bit. While the image of Walter replays in my mind, I'm no longer shivering or even worried about the stickiness. No, I was too preoccupied with this house. I notice a few red marks on his hand as he places a towel on the bed and remember how violent he became. He looked so calm, relaxed even, while he was hurting someone and that bothered me. How could he be so comfortable causing someone that much pain? I think back to the rumours in school about him chasing fights, enjoying them, and I know now that it's true. Perhaps he didn't start or go looking for them but George was more than happy to finish them.