Page 22 of Spiral

I start the climb up the old stairwell, heaving from the run and the summer heat, and sigh with relief at the empty corridor that greets me.The third floor is made up primarily of laboratories, which graduate students use to conduct research. By this time in the late afternoon, the labs have been cleared of students and expertly cleaned, with all signs of the morning’s experimentation scrubbed away. A strange combination of scents lingers in the air – Fabuloso and formaldehyde. There’s something oddly comforting about it.

I peek through the empty classroom windows, taking in the still calmness of the quiet hall. It’s rare to find these moments at TU, the school with the largest student body in the state. Nearly every corner of campus is filled to the brim with students, professors, faculty… but this, this dimly lit third floor hallway of the Chem building, somehow always offers a moment of tranquility.

I stroll past each laboratory slowly, procrastinating entrance into molecular chemistry where Jonah, without a doubt, will have forgotten his pencil. And his paper. And his backpack. My jog has saved me plenty of time, leaving me a few minutes to enjoy the silence. The hallway is dark, with the only light coming from the floor to ceiling window at the very end of the hall.

“More!”

I look up at the sudden noise, which, although quiet, is plainly heard in the still hallway.

“God, yes!”

It’s a girl’s voice, coming from the inside of the empty lab to my left. Very few lights are on in the classroom and, from where I’m standing, the subject of the noise is just out of view.

“Fuck, right there–”

I spring myself closer to the window, scanning my eyes across rows of lab tables and upside-down beakers, which sit drying on countertops.

Who the hell fucks in a busy school building?

In the far corner of the room, sitting on a table with her back to me, is a half-naked blonde woman I don’t recognize. Her legs are spread wide, her head leaning back as her fingernails scrape across the desk. Her moans are low and breathy, just barely heard through the closed door of the lab. Her body shakes against the table with every thrust, blonde curls falling to her waist as she cries in ecstasy.

And leaning over her shoulder, burly hands gripping her ass and jeans crumpled at his ankles, is Patrick.

The minutes pass by in slow motion as I stand at the edge of the Chem building steps. My breaths are quick and deep, though not from the sweltering heat. Small drops of blood stain the hem of my white t-shirt, dripping from the open cuts along my knuckles. I scan the crowd earnestly, looking for Eleanor.

I haven’t a clue what to expect – I’ve never met her. I’ve only received brief descriptions from Georgia, in the blue moon moments where she forgets she hates me and opens up, usually when she’s doodling little figures in her journal between taking notes.

I love those moments.

“Oh my GOD. Are you okay?!”

Eleanor’s jaw hangs open in shock as she approaches me. Her long hair is dark brown, ultra-straight, and shining in the evening light. She is very thin, almost lanky, and much taller than Georgia. Her clothing is casual – a pair of athletic shorts and a TU Tribune t-shirt three sizes too big for her.

“Y-Yes, I’m okay,” I stammer, my tone unconvincing.

Eleanor grabs my hands without hesitation – bold for a girl I’ve never met – and examines my knuckles closely.

“What happened?!” she asks, her eyes widening as she detects new bleeding cuts with each adjustment of my hand.

“I’ll explain… but you need to come with me,” I reply, turning my body towards the door of the chemistry building and beginning my ascent of the stairwell.

The third floor still sits quiet, dark, and empty. There is not a sound to be heard, aside from Eleanor’s labored breaths after trudging up multiple flights of stairs.

“Jesus,” she gasps. “Is this the Olympics?”

“Not with that performance,” I mutter, forcing a half-smile.

“Alright, smartass.” She chuckles slightly, her voice oozing with confidence. “Can you tell me why I’m here?”

I take a sharp inhale. I knew Eleanor was the person to call – she knows Georgia so much better than I do – but what do I say? I find myself lost in my thoughts, allowing multiple beats of silence to flow between us as I carefully construct my words.

“I saw…” I pause, my breathing now as labored as Eleanor’s – but for a very different reason.

“You saw…?” she repeats, one eyebrow raised.

“Well, I was in this hallway walking up to my chemistry class about 20 minutes ago. When I passed this classroom,” I point to the lab directly to the left of us, which now sits darkened and empty, “I saw Patrick hooking up with a girl. A girl that’s not Georgia.”

She raises a hand to her mouth, eyes widening.

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