Dirty. That was the only thing Brooke was feeling. Not sadness, not hurt, not even confusion. The only thing she felt was dirty. Devoid of any other emotion, she wasn't even crying, just sitting in the corner of the room, staring blankly at nothing. It still hasn't hit her yet exactly what had occurred, and although she knew, she didn't understand. The pain from her lip and her back and her... everything... was now a constant thud and it became part of her world, so much so that she didn't even recognize it.
She didn't know how long had passed, but she knew she had been in here for hours, and that it was definitely past curfew. But at least here, in the room of requirement, she was safe from prying eyes, from curious bystanders, and safe from both friend and foe. It had appeared for her in the form of a small, enclosed cupboard, empty and cold. It had just enough space for her to sit comfortably, and that was exactly where she had been for the past few hours.
When the boy had left her on the floor, somehow, she gathered just enough strength to pick up her wand, crawl over to the sink and drag herself up. And then, stumbling down the empty corridors and rooms, she made her way to the top floor, finding and collapsing into the room she was now in.
She knew people might start wondering where she was, but she honestly didn't care anymore. Slowly, very slowly, awareness began to seep in, mixing with the disgust she had of herself, and she closed her eyes, trying to control her emotions. But it was no use, and they had already been pushed past their limits when the boy had... When she had... No, she wouldn't allow herself to remember. She had done what she had to do to keep Tristan safe, that was all.
It didn't matter what she had done. It didn't matter that she herself was now broken beyond recognition. It didn't matter what she felt. Tristan would not be hurt, and that was enough. But her mind reminded her that she had failed to save the other person she cared about.
One or the other, the decision was not humanly possible to make, but she had chosen and now she was left with the consequences. Either way the older Slytherin would have won, and either way she would have been on the losing side of a battle she never wanted to be involved in. Who to save? Her younger brother whom she had promised herself would never again suffer as he had on the streets? Or the boy she had grown to love completely and wanted to spend the rest of her life with? "Impossible," she whispered to herself. It was the first word she had spoken since he had left her on the cold ground, and her voice came out hoarse and dry, without any trace of feelings. She shuddered at the sound of it. Without thinking of what she was doing, her hand had reached for her wand and she opened her eyes to find her hand wrapped firmly around it, as though she was preparing for a duel. And in a way, she was. Maybe some studies would help her, she thought, clinging onto anything that would help her forget.
Think of a happy thought. Think about a good memory and concentrate on it. Then, cast the spell. The instructions from the text book she had been studying just before she left for her patrolling duties played in her mind. Trying to focus, she cleared her mind and the happiest memory she had came rushing to her:meeting Joe. "Expecto patronus," she whispered, her voice shaky. Nothing happened. She didn't even need to ask herself why; along with the memories of meeting Joe came the fresh ones of him, and she realized that she no longer had any happy memories that had not been corrupted. If she though of Tristan, she saw her old wand and the promise of his breaking; thoughts of Joe came with the images of the kisses and that. Looking down at the floor, she dropped her wand, watching it roll a few feet away. What was the point of spells if she couldn't do them? Turning away and gazing at the bare wall, she felt her throat catch, and she swallowed a sob.
She was just too tired to cry, her emotions completely drained from what had taken place. Part of her regretted meeting Joe in the first place, but she immediately pushed out that idea. Joe was amazing, beyond her wildest dreams and she never would want to give him up. Was it worth everything she was going through? That she wasn't exactly sure. It was another impossible question, but it seemed to her that the Slytherin took pleasure in making her decide these things.
And what was it that she did that made him come after her with such malicious intent? The only time she recalled interacting with him in a negative manner was in her very first CoMC class, but he had gotten his own back. Surely he wouldn't hold a grudge over something as trivial as staring at his drawings? Sighing, she forced herself to go through every single interaction she'd ever had with the other prefect, coming up with nothing. But she knew there had to be something she'd done, because nobody would ever go to such lengths to hurt her for no reason.
Oh, and what would Joe think? With another unseen blow to her fragile state, her mind had brought up the one person who would suffer most from all this. Yes, she had only done it to protect Tristan, but at what cost? What was it that the Slytherin had said? Something about her breaking Joe, and she knew the truth behind those words. It would break him. It would completely break him. And there was nothing she could do! Nothing she could say would ever be able to make him understand. She had to make her choice and she had chosen Tristan. How was she to explain that to him? That her brother was more important to her? No, she knew that wasn't true. She cared about Joe equally; she loved them both with all her heart. And yet she chose Tristan.
Hours ticked by, and with each passing moment, she questioned everything she had thought she knew. Replaying every second in her mind like a tape recorder stuck on repeat. Wondering what she could have done different, if she could have saved them both. At one point, she thought she heard someone outside, calling her name, but she was sure it had been in her imagination. Her watch had fallen off while in the bathroom, and she had no means of telling the time, although her body clock told her it was in the very early hours of the morning. Curling up into a fetal position, she lay down, her eyes blank and far too emotionless for someone who had just been through such abuse. Her breathing slowed down to a repetitive, constant rhythm as her worn out body relaxed and her eyes began to shut, finally giving way to the physical and emotional exhaustion that had been weighing her down.
Sleep wouldn't be the best word to describe what had given the temporary relief to Brooke - sleep was something that happened when one was at peace. Rather, Brooke had passed out. Something somewhere deep down had given way, and she was nothing but an empty shell, unable and unwilling to feel. In that state, she was blissfully unaware of her surroundings, and so it was no surprise when she didn't hear the door being forced opened and someone else entering the room. She didn't hear the gasp of horror coming from the figure that bent down over her. She didn't feel a pair of strong arms gently moving her onto a stretcher, and she didn't feel it when it was levitated carefully to the hospital wing. When her father had been called and he came rushing into the room, she was drifting in and out of consciousness, not wanting to ever wake up.
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