Page 13 of The Ripper

~ She doesn’t know that.

~ Yet. Now shut up.

*

She read the whole time.

I knew that because I had been watching her like a creep for the last two hours, which meant I also caught all the little glances she threw my way, and enjoyed how she blushed every single time because she found me already looking at her.

The plane hit slight turbulence, whereupon she yelped, her breath catching in her throat as she dropped the book, clutched her cross and quietly hummed a prayer.

God’s flown the co-op, little angel. All you’ve got to cling to is the devil’s enemy.

The plane began to shake a little harder, and she squealed as she grabbed my forearm and dug her long nails into my skin. I gritted my teeth, not because it particularly hurt me, but because it turned me the fuck on.

She didn’t realize she was grazing my arm and not the armrest, and I didn’t dare point it out, because she was touching me.

The feel of her skin on mine felt sinful.

“Breathe,Snezhinka[1],” I heard myself whisper as I turned my arm over and took her small hand in mine.

She turned her head towards me, her lower lip trembling as her eyes filled with tears. They didn’t fall, but it still made me angry.

Her skin was cold, too cold, and I figured that she must be seriously frightened, which made me want to kill the pilot. I didn’t give a shit it wasn’t his fault.

She nodded frantically as she struggled to calm her breathing, and I found myself whispering words of encouragement to her.

~ Look at you, being a fucking emotional support puppy.

The plane shook again right when I was about ready to knock my head against the chair in front of me, and a tear slid down her cheek, breaking something that I didn’t think I had inside me: my fucking heart.

It contracted painfully, tossing and turning as she let out a whimper, her hand squeezing mine as she kept moving her lips with a silent prayer.

When the movement subsided and the plane went back to smooth flying, I slowly let go of her hand and she finally seemed to breathe normally again as she kissed the stupid cross around her neck.

Anger boiled up inside me because I wanted her to kiss me instead of that thing, and I looked down at my forearm to see the marks she left. I reveled in them, hoping they would last longer than a few days so I could remember her clinging to me like I was her lifeline.

“God, I’m so sorry,” she said in a breathy voice, and I was snapped out of my trance as I tilted my head to meet her gaze, “I didn’t realize it was your arm.”

For the first time since she sat down, she seemed a little scared of me, probably thinking I was about to lose my shit and hurt her, or maybe I was just imagining it and Arella was still just a little startled about the turbulence.

“I’ve had worse, don’t worry,” I reassured her. “Are you alright?”

She swallowed and nodded. “Yes, thank you.” She gave me a faint smile, then went back to reading her book, and I went back to sneaking glances at her.

She wrote stuff down in her notebook, probably quotes or opinions.

I sighed internally every time her nose wrinkled when she read something she didn’t like, how her eyes sparkled with tears on some pages, and how she struggled to hold in her laughter at times.

Arella was reading Jane Eyre, and I found myself intrigued by it. Not that I gave much thought to literature in general, but the sole thought that she might find herself in that book turned me feral. Was she an orphan? Was she feeling lonely? Was she looking for a place to call home? Someone, maybe?

Was she looking for independence?

For belonging?

What made people choose their reads, if not finding oneself between the lines?

What are you looking for, little angel?

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