I close my eyes, I pray for sleep
It's the same bad dream for nearly a week now
And lord how I've tried, can't catch no shut eye
— Lilac and Willow, Said the Whale
The entire week had been awful — comparatively to the last year of her life, at least — but it seemed she'd found a window of calmness in the storm. The three days after her apparition to the Hebrides had been spent in bed, with her recovering from splinching, bruises, and - oh yeah - torture. Her memories from the evening with her father were dim to say the least, but the pain that had resulted from it was not. Luckily, the dittany had proved sufficient and had healed her wounds, but she was by no means strong enough to gallivant around the MacFusty property without assistance.

She wasn't in Tilda's home today, but the home of Tilda's cousins, who had proven to be a much larger family (both in numbers and physical size) than her friend's. She was perched up on a cushion next to a window, where she was able to look out into the flowered fields. She'd been enjoying the company of Mrs. MacFusty — Immie, as she'd preferred to be called — when the older woman had left and her husband had replaced her.

"Mr. MacFusty," she greeted almost shyly. In the days after the incident, Bella's loudness and vibrancy had been replaced by a much quieter, even solemn, version of herself. She hadn't thought much of it; it was difficult to be in a very happy mindset when she was trying to wrap her head around everything that had transpired back in Dorset.

"Should I assume you've been told..." she added suddenly, her gaze moving away from him. She wasn't sure what Tilda and her family had told the entire family about what she'd told them. It would make things more difficult to hide, sure, but she imagined they'd eventually want to know why she was here and why she was all injured.

Malcolm MacFusty

She shifted uncomfortably where she was seated, but was at least partly happy that he'd decided to situate himself a ways away from her. She wasn't afraid of him, but rather insecure; her sleeves, while covering most of the scars, didn't help cover every inch of the bruised discoloration on her skin. (Her neck was a lost cause, but she'd tried to remind herself that this was a land of dragon-keepers who probably had their fair share of injuries).

"I'm more than willing to answer what questions you may have," she obliged, keeping her eyes low as she flashed him a smile. More than willing was probably pushing it, as she was confident Tilda hadn't even made out the entirety of her story. There were some things... better left unsaid, no matter how relevant they might have been.

She couldn't give him a straight answer, as she wasn't even sure what had been going through her family's mind in the almost-week she was missing before she was reported. Reporting her days after she went missing made them look bad, and she'd been convinced appearances were all her father cared about. He was never the brightest, though.

"I haven't spoken to them since I left. I wouldn't really know," she answered honestly. Of course, the underlying message behind his question was "What took place that would make it okay to let you stay missing?" which she had a more definitive answer for. "He- my father, I mean- did this," she offered quietly, tugging up her sleeve to show the bruises that still colored her skin. "He lost his temper with me. A bit."

Bella let out a soft chuckle that really seemed to resemble more of a broken cough than a laugh. While her bruises were still healing, she had a nagging feeling that they would never really heal. Life had a way of reminding her of her past troubles, whether verbal reminders or the headlines of Witch Weekly, so she doubted this would be any different.

"Tilda handled them. She's been handling them, I mean." There were probably better alternatives than a nineteen-year-old healer form the Creature-Induced Injuries ward to tend to them, but her options in the Hebrides were limited. "I'm not sure what can be done about them, and I was a hospital intern, too."

Despite the generous hospitality of the MacFusty family, Bella had no desire to take advantage of their kindness. She was sick and tired of relying on everyone (including her insufferable family, which is one of many reasons she'd gone to work at St. Mungo's in the first place) for financial backing and housing, even to the point where she was willing to sacrifice some comforts.

"Only until I- well, until I figure out what I can do. If I make accusations and the Ministry does nothing, I'll either be dead or wish I was," she admitted.

Bella frowned. Though she knew the likelihood of them doing nothing was slim, there were ways — knowing her father for who he was — he could escape punishment.

"My father used to be one of them. An auror, I mean," she said quietly, folding her arms across her abdomen. "I mean, he knows how they work. He knows what questions they'll ask. He'll find some way to pin this one me — he always does. He'd find some way to blame me if the tabloids published an article saying I'd stolen a chunk of the moon. Or something, she explained with a huff.

Bella smiled a sad smile before nodding in understanding.

"I'd rather cast myself into poverty than go back there. Besides, he'd probably—" She stopped there, realizing that no matter how much she needed to talk to someone, speaking in such candid terms with a stranger was perhaps not the best way to handle the situation. She wasn't too far gone to understand that — yet, at least.