She sat on a park bench on a fine summer day. The breeze played with her short black hair but she only bothered to brush it out of her face when it was necessary. She sat, staring around her with wide eyes so dark they were almost black. She clutched a thick, battered notebook to her chest, and occasionally her grip on it tightened so much her knuckles turned white. She continued to gaze at the people around her, kids and parents and teens milling about, enjoying the beautiful weather. She tugged at the frayed bit of her shorts, and she tugged at the cuff of her shirt at her shoulder and she tugged at the small silver cross she wore around her neck. She scratched her chin.
And then she saw him.
A couple yards away was a boy. He couldn’t have been much older or much taller than she was, which made her smile. His tight jeans were black, as well as his converse sneakers and his loose muscle shirt. He wore a skinny tie, which was a pale pink, and the gages in his ears matched it. His features were pointed, but he was still handsome. His hair was a plethora of colors. His friend offered him a cigarette, and he refused, looking frustrated. The girl saw his face tighten in disgust as the other man lit his cig. The contempt made his face ugly. The girl smiled huge.
She opened her notebook.
She took out her pencil.
The girl wrote furiously, never bothering to look back at what she wrote and if she made a mistake, instead of erasing she simply scribbled it out as hard as she could, as if flipping the pencil over would interrupt the flow of the words that simply poured out of her. Periodically she would abruptly stop. The pencil eraser would enter her mouth as she chewed on the end, staring at the boy, her pose almost the same as before she saw him, except the notebook lay open on her lap. And then she would write some more. If her hand grew sore, she didn’t care.
The boy, who was also in a people watching mood, noticed her. He was much slyer than she was in the way he watched others, so when he noticed her, he also noticed that she was staring at him. She was clueless, however. He continued to watch her pattern, to his face, to the notebook, to his face, to the notebook. His thoughts were interrupted by his friend, who was off to meet his boyfriend in the city. The boy said goodbye to his friend and turned back to the girl. She wasn’t very pretty, he noticed. He thought if she wore tighter clothes she might look better. And maybe if she considered brushing her hair. But the boy couldn’t ignore that she was looking so avidly at him, and finally when her head was down while she wrote he walked over and sat down beside her on the hard bench.
Her entire body stiffened, and he laughed to himself. He liked making people nervous. It gave him a certain sense of power. He dressed like a madman because it made people run from him. He did crazy stunts and mean pranks all the time. He liked being on edge, and he wanted everyone to be on edge with him. He watched the girl, who had apparently decided to ignore his presence and just keep writing. Her hand was so fast it blurred, and her handwriting was completely illegible. He began to read over her shoulder and wasn’t at all shocked to find a detailed description of him, but it was told in first person, as if he was describing himself. He slowly leaned closer to her as he read, and he was impressed that she took no notice of him. He kept moving until finally, his face was in her neck. She still did not react, but he was determined to get a rise out of this strange girl.
So he softly bit her pulse point.
She jumped violently.
He laughed, and she couldn’t help but notice that his laugh, though it may have been intended to be mean, sounded beautiful. It was such an unexpected sound that she finally looked at him. From across the park she hadn’t been able to see that his eyes were a pale grey, and they sparkled in the light. Now she knew when he was angry, he was ugly. When he was neutral, he was handsome. When he smiled –
When he smiled he was beautiful. Radiant almost.
He asked her what she was writing and she shrugged and mumbled but didn’t really tell him because she didn’t really want him to know that she was writing a story about him. He pointed at the page and questioned her endlessly.
Is that really what I look like to you?
What else is going to happen?
Are you writing a book?
Am I the main character?
Can my character ride a skateboard and get the hot girl in the end?
That last question is what got the girl to finally open up. She explained that in the story, the boy is gay for the other boy with the cigarettes.
He said that yeah, the cigarette boy is gay, but he, himself, is straight.
The girl stood up, closed her notebook, and held out her hand to the boy.
“Walk with me.” She requested of him quietly.
They walked through the park and into the field with the big, rolling hill and she talked while running around him in circles and sometimes stopping and sometimes skipping and sometimes walking and sometimes waving her arms in huge circles. After a couple of minutes she handed him her notebook, which he somehow knew was probably the most important thing she owned. This way she could move more freely.
She wove him a tale of how he, the protagonist, was thrown into a world of witches and warlocks and dragons and potions and evil and good and love and lust and hate and how he was just a normal boy, just a normal college boy who simply wanted a normal college life but deep down he knew that he had a duty, an obligation, to the land that was being torn apart by the monsters and the demons and that he alone had to fight them off.
Also his boyfriend came along for some of it, but he died on the way.
She told of how the good wins, the love triumphs, the evil is vanquished, and peace is restored. He stopped seeing her body dance and instead saw the words dance, through the air, painting beautiful pictures.
The girl stopped moving, stopped talking. She said that this was the end of the story. She held out her hand to take back her notebook, and he could see her retreating back into herself, back to the silent girl on the bench so he grabbed her wrist and pulled her close to his body, close enough that he quickly counted how many layers were stopping them from fucking each other and he told her that she was beautiful and she said, “I know.”
She said, “My name is Bridget.”
She said, “Nice to meet you.”
“And you are?”
© Copyright 2016 SashaStorm97. All rights reserved.
Book / Fantasy
Book / Fantasy
Short Story / Romance
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