I turn off the alarm on my phone. I sleepily roll over to the other side to snuggle back into Devin’s protective embrace for a brief moment, but the dream image is suddenly replaced by the thought of the maths test that awaits me. My pulse quickened to an excited rhythm, but instead of my usual desperation, I am filled with a bubbling curiosity. Maybe this time I won’t panic during the test…

And if I do, I’ll be more depressed than ever before before Devin’s lesson. After all, he’s been tutoring me, investing his time and energy, believing in me… If I fail, I’ll shame him.

I put my glasses on, but as soon as I open my eyes I feel dizzy and take them off.

Shit… My eyesight is getting worse again? And so quickly, by so much?

My hands… I stare at the sharp outlines, my pink fingernails, the texture of my skin, as if I’m seeing it for the first time. My room, the furniture, is drawn in the morning sunlight with sharp edges rather than in patches of colour. The fluff on the worn sweaters, the logo on the crisps’ bag, the books on the carpet… I can read their titles!

I wait for the illusion to fade and the world to go back to it’s usual blurry mess.. Maybe I’m still dreaming…

I run to the bathroom and wash my face with cold water. It’s icy, almost painful, but I keep washing it. When I looked out from between my fingers, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Not the white-skinned, red-haired nightmare, but my own pale face. The pimple on my temple, the dried teardrops on my eyelashes, my eyelashes – I can see them… all of them! Brown irises with a few greenish flecks. How much bigger my eyes look without the lenses! Of course, I wouldn’t call myself beautiful… But still…

I laugh.

I can see!

How can it be? – The question, eager with happiness, echoes sinisterly inside me. My smile fades and I stare into the mirror as if I am seeing a terrifying, abnormal apparition. It all started with the hallucinations, then my strength improved, now this…

Is this even possible? If so, how? I should see a doctor. I can almost see their confused faces as they search for logical explanations, force me to undergo various tests and examinations, take blood, dissect me…

No. I’m not going to visit a doctor. Why should I? I have no complaints. They’d laugh at me. Or they’d show me something I’m not prepared for.

Mutation… insanity…

So what do I tell my Mum? I haven’t even told her about what happened in PE. But how can I keep this a secret?

Somehow I have to.

I go back to my room, put my glasses back on, try to force the blurry silhouettes into shape, but all I achieve is a headache. Too dangerous to wear. I put them in the case and slide them into my bag, like a kind of mascot to protect me from embarrassing questions.

I get dressed and go downstairs. Meanwhile, I pray that Mum is still drunk and sleeping the sleep of the righteous.

But I have no such luck. She’s sitting in the living room, turning towards me at the sound of my footsteps.

“You’ve fallen asleep aga… Talia, where are your glasses?”

“In my bag,” I avoid her gaze. “I’ll pick them up at school.”

“Are you seeing your prince in the morning now? I understand if you want to look pretty to please him, but you’re hardly going to impress him by falling through cracks in the pavement.”

Devin… My heart jumps into my throat. What’s he going to say? What am I going to tell him? He’ll think I’m torturing myself just for him.

“If it bothers you that much, you should consider contact lenses. But this way, you’ll only strain your eyes and make them worse. Is that what you want?”

I’m going to get my shoes without a word. She came closer so I can properly hear every word, but despite all her efforts, in my head,  Mum’s sermon fades into the background noise.

Contact lenses… All my life I’ve been reluctant to put anything in my eyes: I’m never going to have anyone, so why should I suffer the stinging, the inflammation? But now, going out with Devin is a great excuse for a change. That’s what I’m going to tell Mandy and anyone else who asks.

Even to Devin?

My shoelace knitting fingers pause.

Would I lie to him? He’s always been honest with me. He has his secrets, but what he tells me is like opening his heart to me. That sad, black look…

“…does he really mean that much to you?”

I look at my mother as if she can read my mind, then realise she’s still worried about my eyes.

I’m overcome with anger. When has she ever truly cared about me?

“Yes,” my voice interrupts her confident monologue. “He accepts me. Even if I am fat, with greasy hair, in boy’s clothes. No glasses would keep him away from me. I decided to take them off. Believe me, as soon as I feel bad, I’ll put them back on.”

Her dark eyes sparkle with silent rage.

“Do what you want. Destroy your eyes, get yourself pregnant, I don’t care…,” she sits back on the sofa and pours wine.

“Exactly. Everyone ruins their own life as they please,” I close the door behind me.

With a force that frightens me. The handle loosens in my hand.

What is happening to me?

 

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The door closes behind me, the sound of the lock clicking into place echoing through the maze of books. Ceiling-high shelves are lined with antique, iron-bound volumes too precious to be borrowed by anyone. There is not a speck of dust, the floor is unstained by the footprints of visitors, the silence distorts my own footsteps into a strange noise. This is a locked section of the library, I shouldn’t be here…

Although Devin said I could visit him anytime.

I look around for other staff, but there is no one here.

Just him.

He’s arranging books on a table, his long hair glistening in the setting sun. At other times he keeps me talking, asking me about my life, talking about himself, but this time he is working in silence, deep in thought. Just like the day we first met, and I watch his broad shoulders and the muscles in his arms with the same quiet awe. His graceful fingers turn the heavy volumes as if they were weightless, their covers land softly over one another. I admire the respectful, gentle and yet swift way he works.

As I watch, a corner of a book slips through the neatly arranged pile, his hand wavering.

I turn to the shelves so as not to disturb him, but none of the titles interest me, and my thoughts return to his hands, his mouth…

His embrace… A warmth runs through me, and I insinctively close my legs.

He picks up a pile of books and begin to walk. I resist the temptation to follow him. The sound of his footsteps moves away, then closer, then stops, finally settling behind me.

My nose fills with his sweet, spicy scent. His arm rises above me, sliding a volume into place. Breathless, I wait for him to move on. But he stays. I feel the inviting warmth of his body, his breath softly brushing a few hairs on my head. My heart leaps into my throat as I turn, my nose almost hitting his chest. He doesn’t pull away as he’s done so many times before, his arm resting on the top shelf, shutting me off from the outside world. I would find this closeness threatening from anyone else, yet I would pull him to me. I could just do it. My cheeks burn, my knees shake.

This is not right. I should go home and study and let him concentrate on his work… I look up at him, let his black eyes penetrate me, hold me. Piercing, loving, with a sadness lurking in the depths that only those who have suffered much in the past can look with. But now there is a new feeling in them, one I hadn’t noticed before, or simply didn’t want to notice: desire, lurking beneath the surface, waiting for the moment when it can sweep away the barriers.

He leans towards me, but stops inches away, waiting for me to close the distance between us. I stand on tiptoe, my lips touching his mouth.

He kisses me back greedily, passionately, burying his hand possessively into my hair. The walls that have held him back are cracking and everything he’s been trying to hide is coming to the surface. Before, I thought it was unimaginable that he could touch me like this.

You are not worthless.

I want to be his, to make him forget that he was ever not enough for anyone. I want to take in his loneliness, all the things he’s suffered in his life but never told anyone about, his disappointments, his doubts. To let him know that he can trust me as much as I trust him, and that he no longer has to hide the storm raging inside him behind kind smiles.

He kneels on the floor with me. As he hugs me, his soft hair falling around me, his hard groin pressed against me. The same two weeks of repressed anticipation are urges him as they are driving me. He lays me on my back on the floor. Not roughly, but there is no trace of his usual restraint. He unbuttons my trousers, releasing me from them with practiced, quick movements. I expect to be overwhelmed with shame, but as soon as I realise that his dark eyes are a mirror of my own misery, his closeness feels natural.

I hear him unbuckle his belt. He presses me down, his full weight on my arms. His fingers grip me so tightly that my hands are almost numb. I wish that he would hold me like this forever, as tight as no one has ever held me before. His hips move firmly between my thighs when he gets inside me,, filling me completely. He holds me firmly, but my body willingly accepts whatever he gives me. Whether it’s pain or pleasure. He pauses for a moment, but I don’t want him to be gentle. I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him deeper into me. Even if it hurts. I want to feel him, not just the side he shows in civilian to please the world.

His muscles force me into passivity, getting deeper inside me with with each thrust, bringing me closer to his true being. Which is far from nice or kind. Wild, howling in pain, possessive. I let his feelings in. His anger at the life others have forced him into. His hatred for those who have hurt him. His grief and loss for those he has lost.

I know exactly what it’s like to suffer, screaming mutely under the surface. I would give anything to ease his burden.

He pushes me closer and closer to delirium. I relax into it, enjoying all the bitterness and sorrow of his soul pouring into me, echoing in me pulse after pulse.

My back arching, my muscles wet with desire contracting around my finger.

When the ecstasy subsides, I pull away. My breathing calms, my mind returns to reality. The dark solitude of my room envelops me, shadows cast on the ceiling by the street lamps.

The emptiness hurts.

What if it never happens?

I crawl under the covers, hug my plush pony and roll over in bed. I remember the embrace of his strong arms, his muscles against me under the turtleneck, the smell of him, the warmth of his breath on my ear.

“Thank you.”

I can hardly believe he actually hugged me, and not just in my imagination.

I can almost hear what Mandy will say tomorrow when I tell her.

“Just a hug? He hasn’t kissed you yet?!”

She wouldn’t understand… There was something about his hug… deep and intimate, that made it hotter than any kiss and swept the thoughts out of my head. I’d even forgotten to ask for his number, although I’d baked the cake in case I might have the confidence if I give him something. But now that the opportunity has passed, who knows if I’ll ever have the courage?

Or is stretching his personal boundaries too pushy? After all, he hasn’t asked for my number. After all, we see each other every day, I don’t want to seem obsessed.

But… what if I am?

A shadow moves across the ceiling, a feathery silhouette of wings. I look up at the window.

These blue and white birds are becoming more common these days. Are they nesting here?

 

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I turn a few pages in Crime and Punishment, jot down a few sentences in my notebook. From time to time I look up, especially when I saw some movement behind the glass door of the adult section. I deliberately chose a spot in the reading room where I could see it. I’ve been sitting here for an hour, but only a few students and librarians make up the sparse traffic. When I arrived, I went in to get this book to analyze and some fantasies to take home – but he was nowhere to be found.

What if I’m in the wrong section?

          Go in and look again!

No. I have to concentrate on my essay. At least I’m not depressed by Mum’s presence here.

Only Devin’s.

I chew on the end of my pen. What if he doesn’t work today?

Come on… If he wanted to dump me, he’d have done it by now. Anyway, he said he was looking forward to Monday.

I’m looking forward to it too. In fact, I couldn’t wait for it. That’s the real reason I came here, while I pretended to Mum that I was going to the mall with Mandy.

I write a few lines.

A black and white silhouette drifts across the edge of my vision and I immediately look up. Our eyes meet. I wave at him, but he’s carrying books, so he just nods with a smile and walks away, his white hair floating like a veil behind him. My heart leaps from my chest to my throat.

I’m sure he’ll come out to see me soon.

My teeth chatter on the plastic.

The hand of the wall clock clicks quietly.

Why isn’t he coming?

I want to go after him… But I don’t want to hold him up. He must be busy…

What if he’s not?

It was too much to come here. Especially today, when I know he’s working. Like a pushy, annoying bitch who has a nervous breakdown when she has to spend three whole days without her boyfriend.

          Concentrate on the essay!

I’m reading the labelled paragraph, but the words don’t make a sentence. Why am I torturing myself? Even David’s sweatshirt can’t protect me from this madness. I should go home.

And deprive myself of hope?

“Can I help you?” Oh, the voice that touched my soul.

It still does.

A shy voice answers, but I don’t understand what it says. The girl is shifting from one foot to the other. The curve of her eyes and the way she was dressed made it clear that she is a foreign student. She is probably being directed to someone who can speak to her… But Devin spontaneously switches to her language, the girl’s face lights up and she follows him into the bookshelf maze.

There, she can walk behind him… smell his perfume… admire the way the light plays on his hair…

My nails, bitten short, whiten on the pen, dig into the stamp, leaving a permanent mark.

He is so kind to her… Because it’s his job. I wonder what they talked about? What did he tell her?

What if he invites others to coffee too?

Maybe I should really listen to my mother and lose a few kilos…

Soon he reappears on the other side of the glass wall as his colleague at the counter stands up and waves him over. A young woman, her face freckled, her blonde-brown hair is tidy, her blouse and skirt are loose but cut to accentuate her slender body. She looks lovely, more than that, she just glows. She looks familiar from somewhere. Maybe because she’s served me more than once. Why had I never noticed how beautiful she is?

Probably because she wasn’t talking to Devin. She wasn’t smiling at him, blushing at his words. The way Devin looks at her… It’s as if he knows exactly why she’s so enthusiastic and doesn’t mind. In fact, he enjoys it. The gestures, the way he moves, the tenderness when he pats her on the back…

I can almost see them laughing together in Once Upon A Time.

I stare at the paper as if I could immerse myself in it. Whatever he’s doing, I don’t want to see it.

Dostoyevsky and the polyphonic novel.

Light, elegant steps, the smell of cinnamon and cardamom. Too close.

“Did you miss me?” He squeezes my shoulder. For a moment I forgot to breathe.

Am I dreaming or has he really come to see me?

“I like studying here. When I manage to trick Mum with an alibi.”

“Dostoyevsky?” When he leans over me from behind, a few white tufts fall on the notebook, but he immediately adjusts them.

“Yes…” I groan in confusion. Now I definitely look like a geek.

“May I?” He reaches for the book and the chair next to me at the same time.

He sits down and carefully runs his long fingers through the book. What beautiful, well-groomed hands. Most girls go to a manicurist for such almond-shaped nails. But there’s something unusual about them… It took me a few seconds to notice: they weren’t divided into white and pink, and there was no crescent at the base of the nail bed – it’s all a uniform ivory. I wonder if are they real? It’s hard to imagine him doing fake nails…

“Maybe it’s time to read it again,” he says quietly, so as not to disturb the other readers in the room.

“Do you like it?” I raise an eyebrow.

“It used to be one of my favourites. How was it?”

“Pretty good, for compulsory literature.”

“That didn’t sound very convincing,” he smiles.

“It starts slowly… And while I like psychological descriptions, putting all the character’s rambling thoughts down on paper is a bit much.” I scribble a flower on the edge of the paper. My hand is shaking.

“I think that’s what makes it real. I can get so involved that I almost become one with the protagonist.”

“I don’t know…” Am I really starting a debate about his favourite book? Yes, I am. Only because he made me wait. “I often found Raskolnikov’s thoughts so odd. He killed a loan shark, did he really think he can get away with it? With a clear conscience? In fact, he tells himself that he has done a noble deed because he is ‘extraordinary’.”

“Do you condemn him?”

“I can understand his circumstances, his misery, his reasons, but still… to kill someone, and then a completely innocent person too… Of course, there was nothing else he could do at the time, but no wonder he was “punished” for it.”

He put the novel down, his hand going to the stole lying on the corner of the table. My freshly borrowed books, all dark fantasy, full of eroticism… My face burns. I should have put them away a long time ago.

“Lorian Ain’Dal: A Taste of Mortality”, he turns it over as if reading the blurb, but from his tone I suspect he knows the story of the cruel fae king. “You seem to like murderers after all”, his thighs brush against mine under the table, his height preventing him from sitting comfortably. My cheeks glow, just like down there. I cross my legs.

“I-I love dark characters. It’s fascinating to try to analyse why they are the way they are, to imagine what it would take to change them…”

“And what did you find?”

“It is often loneliness, trauma, misunderstanding that brings them to a low point. But if they find someone worthy, they can change for the better.”

“So… all bad guys can be fixed?” His mouth smiles, his eyes don’t.

“I think so.”

“What if they are irredeemable?”

“There’s no such thing. Just lack of motivation, time, untreated problems like depression…

Dad… Could he have recovered?

I’ll never know.

“Raskolnikov’s character also develops a lot over the course of the story. How does he differ from the fae king?”

“I don’t know… He’s so… human. Murder is different in fantasy. And different in reality. I think.”

“You find it scary.”

“A little bit. It’s one thing to taunt, to beat, to torture, to blackmail, it’s another to take a life. It’s something… irreversible.”

“I know what you mean”, the peaceful, innocent depth of his black eyes draws me closer. I want to fall deep into them.

He stands up, a sad smile on his face.

“I promised my colleague I’d help with the inventory. Have fun with the polyphonic novel and the fae king!” He adds: “Let me know if you get stuck, I’ll be in there”, as if he knows that this offer will dispel the jealousy that has been building up inside me. I can always go to him, so he has no secrets from me…

 

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