Page 16 of Envy

Beneath the moon’s cold light, your shadow sleeps,

A ghost spinning the thread of fate.

If you whispered words through purged lips, you chain my eager hands,

And reawaken my cold heart.

Your touch, a thorn that bleeds both sadness and beauty.

A curse I’d endure until the world ends.

Each stolen breath ignites my soul, begging for a poison-laden kiss.

The scent of your skin feeds the darknesswithin me.

A haven carved from fire and sin.

Though every word you speak is laced with lies,

I’d burn for you and take the blame.

For love that lingers close to ruin’s edge,

Is love immortal, bound by the blood that'sbled.

The way he reads is perfect. What he read was dark and passionate. Each word knocked on my heart, wanting to get in, but who would write something like that?

Azriel furrows his brow and hands me the lined notebook paper. “Who wrote that?”

I shake my head, looking at the delicately written words. The handwriting is perfect. “I don’t know. Is it from a book or something? Maybe someone copied it from a famous writer.”

“I don’t think so, Rose. I’ve never heard or read anything like that. Whoever wrote it is…”

I slip the paper delicately into my bag, careful not to ruin it. “Is what?” I press. “What does it mean?”

My stomach twists in anticipation and trepidation. I don’t have a boyfriend. There is no one I can think of that would write something like that but I want to know what it means.

“Well, whoever wrote it is dangerously obsessed.”

“I found it and thought it was interesting.”

The look in his eyes tells me he is not so sure. “What's with you and Garret?”

I shrug glancing at the bag of food. “I have no idea. “Why?”

“Because he’s dangerous,” he warns. “I don’t want that for you, Rose. I know there is something behind all this and I don’t expect you to trust me.”

There’s no way he knows the truth. “Why do you say that?”

“There always is and remember”—he glances at the bag of food one more time—”there is always someone watching. As for Garret, stay away from him.”

I takethe elevator to the fourth floor of the student health department and check in with the nurse at the front desk. She says I’m here to see a therapist. I nod as if I understand, but I don't know why John would make me an appointment when I’ve already lied to the last one about using drugs, having nightmares, or being in a harmful relationship.

I sit in one of the empty chairs closest to the exit. I expected to see more people, but the entire waiting room is deserted. The walls are painted white, like a glass of milk. There are no pictures, no table with magazines, or anything to keep you entertained. There are only two doors and one window: one door for the exit, one for the back rooms, and the window looks out at an elderly woman who appears to be a grandmother.

When my name is called, I walk in and see a woman seated behind a cherry wood desk. Her hands are neatly folded on top, as if she’s praying. She wears a red silk blouse and pearls around her neck, her expression serious, as if this is the last thing she wants to do.

“You must be Rose.”

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