Somewhere in the distance, a butterfly was fluttering from flower to flower, sipping nectar and rubbing its legs together. Its wings were a deep shade of emerald, its beady eyes glimmering like freshly extinguished coal.
Isla had no proof that this butterfly was real, of course. However in her mind it was, and its beauty shown even from miles away. It was so wondrous it could be admired by even her most dimwitted classmates.
Well, thought Isla, this may not be the most entertaining thought I've ever had. But at least it's better than Calculus.
At the front of the class, her teacher Ms. Bree droned on in her terribly monotonous voice, and Isla looked out her window at the stretched out, polluted city below her, and thought of the butterfly.
Two hours later, Isla stumbled out of her Advanced Piano class, fingers aching. She flexed them, swinging her arms through the handles on her bag and heading toward the stairs.
The Academy for the Musically Gifted is twelve stories (the bottom three are never in use), and most people take the elevator. Isla takes the stairs for exactly that reason. Also, she rarely gets winded, so the many steps don't bother her too much.
She twists her chestnut-brown hair into a quick bun, and tromps down the stairs. Apart from a stoner who whistled and asked if she wanted a hit, no one bothered her.
Just as she reached the staircase approaching the first floor, a sound reminiscent of screeching metal sliced through the air. Isla's vision went blurry and her foot slipped on one of the steps. She fell, face first, onto the tiled floor, with only just enough time and common sense to throw her hands in front of her.
Hot pain shot up her arm, but the noise was still persistent so she stayed down, clutching her ears.
It didn't fade, or flash, or pop or fizzle. It just . . . stopped. One second: screeching. Next second: silence.
She gently removed her hands from her ears, and only hesitated a few seconds before bolting down the rest of the stairs, shoving people aside and bursting through the doors to the world outside.
The city was abuzz. It was about six (Isla had to stay later to work on a piece with her piano teacher), and already people were off work. They swarmed like ants, so many that their faces blurred and, to Isla, became a giant, pulsing amorphous blob, a singular entity.
Isla hated crowds.
She clings to her school building wall as she walks, until reaching the alley she knew to cut through to get home. She'd only ever seen one other person use it, and this time was no different: the alley was completely empty.
There were three dumpsters and, at the very end, a flickering light. Isla supposed that most people would find this creepy, and be afraid to enter. Maybe that's why it was always vacant. Anyway, she, herself, felt no fear.
She knew enough to say that any thug who tried to do anything to her would regret it.
She slipped her AutoPlayer from her pocket, flicking the top up and pressing the "play" button underneath. Clare de Lune trickled into her head, forcing a smile onto her face. She shoved the aPlayer into the pocket of her jeans, turning up the volume a little.
Halfway through the alley, she heard a rustle from some of the garbage cans, even over the piano. She jerked one headphone out and snapped her head to the side. When she saw nothing, she breathed out shakily and said, "Rats."
She slipped the earphone back in and continued walking.
A shadow past through her line of vision suddenly, and she dug her heels in the ground, stopping and putting her aPlayer away for good.
Whispers. Definitely human whispers. Isla tried to convince herself that it was just rats again but—rats don't whisper.
She tried to decipher what the voice was saying—or even if it was male of female, if the person had an accent. But there was nothing. It was almost as if they were speaking in another language, but, if they were, it was definitely no language Isla (who's fluent in five of them) had ever heard.
"Hello?" she called out, and immediately winced. That's what all the characters say in the old horror movies, right before they're brutally murdered.
Isla inched a little closer to shadows and kept walking.
The whispers surged up.
Isla swallowed the irrational fear bubbling up in her chest, set back her shoulders and said, "Show yourself." And then, mostly just to sound intimidating, "You don't want to mess with me. Take my word on that."
No response, save the complete eradication of the whispering. Isla smiled: maybe she had scared whoever it was off with her astounding badass-ness.
She strolled on for a few yards, putting her earphones back on and turning up the music.
She only got a few strides before something seemed to sweep down from the sky, tangling itself with her, muffling her screams, and forcing her into darkness.