Page 17 of Nocturne

Perhaps he is angry about his wound?

Dread turns my stomach upside down at the sudden thought. Looking back on that night, the man didn’t seem particularly bothered by it. Other than the threat of death to make me sayhis name, the man didn’t even wince after I fired the gun. I don’t think I saw his face move when he was digging into his flesh for the bullet. How could that be even possible? I cry when I stub my toe.

Thinking back, what he did seems unsanitary. God knows where his hand has been. He is prone to ungodly infections by touching an open wound without proper sterilisation. It is on him if the doctor has to remove his hand because of a nasty infection and not on me. I hope he knows that.

Why is he hanging around in a college when he must have other important things to do? Is he perhaps interested in studying? Then why not enrol himself here? I’m sure that he doesn’t have to go through the same procedures and scrutiny the students have to go through. Heck, I’m sure that Dean Fowler would have professors sent to his house if he ordered so.

My brain is muddled with questions that have no answers. I finally give up on studying and lean back in my chair, closing my eyes.

They sting and burn. I fish out my eye drops to relieve the itch from my dry eyes. I’m pretty sure that they are bloodshot. I have hardly been having three hours of sleep for four days. Maybe I should start taking the pills again. I tip my head back for a few minutes to let the drops work, thankful that it turns down the sting and itchiness.

Is it possible for your skin to warm when under scrutiny? I don’t know about others, but when being stared at by a devil, my skin warms up immediately. I can feel the intensity of perusal all the way here. I feel my skin heating up and my heart beating faster than normal. I cannot open my eyes to look, but I know that he is there, looking at me like a predator does with its prey. Gaugingits weakness, looking for the weaker spots while deciding on whether to pounce or chase.

I wonder what he is looking for.

I wonder what he sees.

Does he think I’m attractive? A man like him must have had his fill of stunning, confident women—women who know their way in bed, without shadows as dark as mine. Women without stomach rolls or extra weight. It used to sting, back when I was younger, but not anymore. As long as I can run, I don’t care

As long as I can escape any tricky situation, I don’t care about my size. I’ve long since given up on the idea of dating, and I don’t obsess over my size anymore. But I do enjoy feeling put-together—looking pretty gives me the confidence to face this world head-on.

I suppose it is natural to wonder. Especially when you encounter a man like Devlin. A man who oozes out masculinity from his every pore, a man who looks formidable. I suppose any woman would want to look at herself from his lenses.

I try to recall what I wore this morning. I’m too lazy for make-up and like to gather my thick mane up in a messy bun with my extra-long pencil. But I do remember that I chose a pretty outfit today. A sleeveless black turtle neck that I tucked into checkered high-waisted beige pants. I feel the chunky belt I added and black heels to finish the look.

I smile slightly, commending my fashion sense. I don’t know about other scholars, but I love splurging on my outfits. I love feeling pretty.

I open my eyes, looking at the ceiling frowning at the way my thoughts are being driven towards.

Why do I care to know if he finds me attractive? Why do I need to seek validation from a man? Let alone a dangerous one like him? Instead of staying as far as possible from him, why am I wondering about things like this?

Resisting the urge to smack myself upside down, I sit straight. This time, when I concentrate on the chapter about neoplasms, my mind works better in trying to process the words. I don’t feel like an illiterate now.

It only works briefly before another useless question pops up in my head when I am about to take another bite at my sandwich.

He was in all my classes today. I had to shift around a few of them to keep up with my syllabus plan and have hardly had any time for myself. Two of my post-grad classes ran for three hours nonstop and I have given myself only a fifteen-minute break to grab a sandwich and meet Ivy before I rushed to this class.

For him to follow me, be here before the students and conceal himself well in the darkness, he must have come right after my last class. That doesn’t leave him with any time to eat.

Why do you care if your stalker ate or not you bloody lunatic?A voice in my head hisses.

Right! Why the heck do I care if that man ate or not? He is terrorising me in all my classes, making me stumble during my lectures and also the reason I started to squirm in my seat. He sits in my classes where he isn’t allowed, making me uncomfortable without any thought, and I care whether or not he ate?

There must be a screw that’s gone loose up in my head.

The hour slips by unnoticed, and the students begin to file out, dropping their answer sheets on my desk. Yet, I can’t shake the thought of whether he ate. It gnaws at me—how ridiculous, how utterly unnecessary—but still, the thought refuses to leave.

With a frustrated hiss, I rummage through my purse, digging for something to scribble on. A bill from some random purchase. Perfect. I scribble down a few words and slap the paper on top of my sandwich.

I barely touched it, anyway. Not that it should matter. I grab the papers to grade, leave the sandwich on my desk, and walk out with the students.

I hope he likes chicken. If not, tough luck. This is the extent of my hospitality, and it’s as generous as I’m willing to get.

Six

Ara

There is something my cowardly self hates me for what I’ve decided to do today. My courage lies in smithereens on many occasions. And, when it involves confronting a mobster who hung dozens of men with missing anatomies on the ceiling, it evaporates into nothing. But I have to do it.

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