Page 2 of Ominous: Part 1
But the problem is, I never signed up to be that for anyone, let alone Eli. Or maybe, at some point along the way I did, but now I understand, I’m so, so ill-equipped to handle just what it means.
I watch his jaw jump.
I wonder if I could convince him we’ll get through this.
But inside my head, away from my heart, I know it isn’t true. The proof is in the past few weeks.
Shattered glass. A psychotic laugh. The fight in Latin.
I feel a sick guilt at admitting I’m glad someone else saw.
Because Eli is unwell, and I am coming undone.
Maybe that’s not quite right either. Because maybe, after everything we’ve been through, maybe after all of this… maybe everyone is wrong.
Maybe I do mean something to him, despite it all.
* * *
After
He woke something in me. I hadn’t been asleep, really, but I had never dreamt either. He helped me do just that, and it was beautiful.
Until, somehow, the exhilaration made me queasy. The adrenaline spikes wore down my nerves. I took so many of my pills, not to hurt myself, but to help my heart. I was worried it wouldn’t surviveit.Him.They were both the same thing.
I was dreaming, and it was all a fucking nightmare.
1
Eden
I round the aisle,looking for Chaucer, when I seehim.
The same boy from my Latin class. The one who sits in the front row, and has for three weeks, since the middle of August when we started at Trafalgar. Or rather, I started, and he’s probably always been here, the way students and teachers alike seem to fawn over him.
Hair of onyx and ink, thick with the slightest wave hanging in his eyes.
He wears a choker around his throat, two inches wide, a strip of leather.
And right now, nearing nine o’clock at night, he’s not in uniform. White sweats, white T-shirt, white, high-top Chucks. It would look stupid on anyone else, but it doesn’t on him. Broad shoulders, taller than most of the students here, he’s got a swimmer’s build; lean, green veins snaking up his hands, over his wrists and forearms, to his biceps. I know he doesn’t swim though. I’ve seen the wrestling hoodie on over his white dress shirt enough times to figure out his sport.
It’s strange because he doesn’t seem so… aggressive.
In the same vein, right now in this moment, a pale orange glow overhead illuminates him in softness, tuning down his features. But physically, his edges are sharp, and the lighting is a façade, just like the smile he wears in class.
There’s something off about it, like it’s rehearsed.
I turn my back to him, resigning myself to wait until he’s meandered out of the aisle. In the meantime, I can scrawl out ideas about my British Lit essay, then checkout the book and go home, hoping Sebastian has finished his nightly routine in the bathroom so I can have a bath and relax.
I head toward the circular table tucked away at the far end of the cavernous library behind a section of Greek classics when I hear someone clear their throat.
I stiffen. My pulse picks up speed. It was a throat-clearing with a purpose. Meant to draw attention.
Dragging my gaze around the empty seats, the main aisle of polished marble, lined with sleek, dark shelves, and sculpted clay statues on the endcaps, I realize the sound was directed toward me. No one else is in here.
Slowly and with a dry mouth I turn around.
The boy has a book in his hand, splayed wide, and I refuse to think about how much attention I’ve spent focused on those hands in the early morning hours of Latin before everyone takes their seats. They’re big, his fingers are long, but not too thick.
