The Public Library

An artist sits alone, as do I. We are one, at this moment in time.

The sun, tangled in his hair, was distracting me.

The bright rays contrasting with the black nest beat down onto my page, almost like a violent criminal against a creaking cell door. The beams poked through the unruly crop of raven locks, and landed on my skin.

I moved my hand away from the light, allowing it to continue its path to the ground.

I glanced at the wooden floor for only a moment, before returning my gaze to the curls sprouting from the stranger's scalp.

It didn't take long before my eyes trailed down to the man's face, noting the thick eyebrows knotting together in concentration, a neanderthal-like look defining him.

He was clear he didn't eat much. His cheeks were gaunt and eye sockets sunken.

He must have been a student, of some sorts, my brain declared.

I looked at the desk the man sat at, and smiled. He was drawing something, and from my angle is certainly looked impressive.

I thought it was some kind of bird; I could see a wing, lifted high and seeming to shimmer, although I knew it was just shading.

The thin man was a good artist. I wondered if that was what he was studying.

An art student. It sounded so modern and cool, I almost felt excited about this man's choice in life.

To wake up and see the world in a new perspective... It seemed to fun! Certainly more fun than my mundane schedule.

I looked at the man's lips, biting my own as a pink tongue licked the bottom one, seeming to acknowledge how chapped they were.

Call me crazy, but I imagined those lips on mine. It seemed like a comforting thought, and I hit my leg, grinning.

The man turned to look at me, the loud, abrupt slap of skin on denim distracting him.

I smiled at him, drinking in the confused and bored hazel orbs that greeted me. There was a conflict in his eyes for a moment, before the skinny man shook his head at the ground and looked back at his masterpiece, hesitating before picking up the pencil.

I studied the man once more, coming to the conclusion he was very attractive indeed. I felt a pang in my stomach, and my finger itched.

Would his hair be like hay or silk?

The locks seemed well looked after, washed often.

I sniffed to see if the smell could travel towards me, and I frowned as nothing greeted my eager nostrils.

I flinched slightly, tightening my jaw.

I needed to smell that hair, my mind screamed. Smell the hair.

I let my pen roll in his direction, and quickly scrambled up to follow the writing utensil.

The chair screeched as I left it, and once again the handsome man turned around, eyes looking up at me. I saw the conflict of emotions, and smiled deeper, my left pointer finger uncurling and gesturing to the pen by his desk.

The artist raised an eyebrow, and went back to drawing.

I walked to the pen, which was in between our desks, and bent over to pick it up and took two steps back as I was bent over so that my body was behind his chair. As I stood up, I breathed in deeply, inhaling the man.

Oh, the smells that greeted me!

Deoderant, cheap and recently sprayed. It was warm, and melted onto my nose.

There was a faint smell of smoke coming from his jacket. He either smoked or bought it from somebody who did.

It wasn't too off-putting. I certainly forgot about it when I managed to smell the hair. The shampoo was apple. Definitly apple.

I slapped my thigh, and quickly went to my chair shaking with excitement.

I laughed, and bit my tongue.

I watched as the man, who had been staring since the second slap, shakily picked up his bag and left, nearly running out the library door.

I stopped biting my tongue, and punched the table, laughing louder.

Apples. My artist.

I wondered if I could see him again, and walked over to the book that had been left alone.

I stared at the picture, still laughing. I ignored the hushed conversations and foot steps of ignorant people, and just stared.

It was an angel, thin and half finished The person had no face, and I frowned.

There could have been gaunt cheeks there. My dear artist was silly to leave this picture undone.

I knew how to finish it.

I put my thumb in my mouth and bit down, body shaking at the pain running through me. I squealed as my teeth broke skin, and the copper taste filled my mouth.

I sucked for a second, shivering, and then placed the wound on the face of the angel.

I squealed again as the red blotched the page, and coloured in the once empty face.

Perfect.

I then closed the book, scanning over the word.

So that was his name, my brain said, I picked it up.

I'd send it back to him.

He'd be happy I completed his work for him.

Author's Note

Please do share your opinion. Critique my work, please!

Reviews

[Rachel]

That was a super interesting read! I like how it stated seemingly innocent then escalated from there, it was very enjoyable :)