Three days later you find yourself in Library. Clammy hands (your hands) coated with dust, cheeks wet with tears, eyes bright with unwanted knowledge, shoulders heavy with necessary burdens. Three days later you find her in the library, three days later she finds you. She finds you at a table in a quiet corner of the reference section, a corner lined with books,at a table made of hazel and held together with iron screws and washers; She finds you, with her dark eyes and her wild hair, she finds you and you find yourself wishing you’d picked a different place to sit.
You feel sick, almost missing. As you stare at her (even though you shouldn’t, even though the blurred words in your text book are frantically telling you to run) she smiles wide and sharp and dangerous, a vague warning, or maybe an invitation.
“Good morning.” Your voice is soft, barely above a whisper, but you know she hears you loud and clear.
“It’s afternoon.” Wolf tips her head at you, something like curiosity twinkling in her dark eyes the way the moon lights the ripples in on the campus lake, and you find yourself shrinking back into your chair. She leans forward, plants her hands on either side of your book, your heart beats a little faster and you’re not quite sure why you don’t jump out the nearest window. You smile.
“Watchfulness is not always a virtue.” Wolf says suddenly, and as she straightens up you can almost see little canine ears perked in alarm. You open your mouth to reply but she’s already gone, the only memento of her presence are the nail marks (claw marks) she’s gouged into the wood.
That night you dream of rain; thrumming, thrumming, thrumming like the gentle gallop of horses, a wrinkled hand touching your cheek, a cooling comfort in the too warm confines of your grandmother’s cabin, the whistle of the wind drowns out her voice and as you strain to hear you remember:
Your grandmother’s eyes were never green. It’s only then that you feel the water around your ankles, seeping into your socks, freezing your toes; it’s only then that awareness returns to you, but like many things realized in hindsight, it’s too little, too late. It’s hands, tiny and thin, find your wrists, curling gently about them. Faintly you wonder if this is the end for you, you wonder if anyone out there will cry for you, or even miss you at all.
It should’ve been the end, but even fate has it’s games.
There’s a scream (not yours) and the air thickens with black mist, it chokes you, holds you in place until firm, weathered hands tear you away, hold you close against warm heaving skin. You can’t help it…. you sleep.
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At last here’s part two!! The ending is a bit rushed but eh, I still think it’s okay! Hopefully you enjoy!
