When Grace woke, the room she was in was very bright and smelt musty. The air felt compressed within the room.
Please don't let it be a guy's bed, please, please….Her vision was very blurry when she struggled to open her eyes, and panicked a little when she couldn't at first. Her eyelashes on her right eye were stuck together with something, something gummy and thick. With shaking fingers, she peeled her eyelashes away, having to pull a few out. She hissed in pain, emitting a few curses. By the time she opened her eyes; she looked at her fingers and saw the brown stain of blood on her fingers.
Jesus Christ. Pulling her senses quickly together, she saw she was sat on top of the plastic covered sofa in the musty living room of her student house. Dust collected on top of everything in the Victorian-like room; on the fireplace, on the plastic covered chairs, on the wooden coffee table, even on the dirty tattered rug in the middle of the wooden floor. It held a silent code of dread that was unspoken and lingering in the walls. Waiting until its next victim would enter its abyss. She saw flecks of particles that danced in the light that streamed in through a chink in the curtains from outside.
She suppressed a shudder, trepidation catching her at sight of the rather eerie room, knowing she had spent a night in it. She glanced over her body, checking it cautiously. Her tights at the feet were ripped to shreds. One heel was missing; the one currently on her foot was ruined with mud, and soaked through the leather inside. She move to sit up, but gasped, bringing a hand swiftly to the right hand side of her head. She was met with a searing headache. It felt like it was splitting her skull in two. Her vision fuzzed a bit, and she instantly put her head between her knees, the throbbing of her head becoming more severe. What on God's green earth happened last night was the first thing that went through her mind. How much did I have to drink, was the second. A lot, judging from her ruined shoes, tights, soaked clothes, and bloody head, not to mention the splitting headache.
Struggling to remember as she sat up, her hangover was confirmed when she felt the horrible familiar clenching of her throat muscles and her jaw stiffening. She felt the bile push itself up through her gullet. She hurtled herself up the stairs, indifferent to how much noise she was making. She held a hand to her mouth, choking. She flipped the lid of the toilet open and hurled into the bowl in time. She couldn't breathe at several points, struggling to catch her breath, and spewing until she felt like she had coughed all her insides out. Her eyes watered.
Her stomach was empty.
She slumped on the cold tiles of the bathroom, breathing heavily, exhausted. Her stomach was not settled. She leaned forward again and vomited, very hard. The bathroom was very cold, and felt like it had been recently used. There was moisture in the air, and the window was propped wide open. She didn't take notice of the distinct male-scent in the air; a mix of body odour, shampoo and deodorant. She didn't notice the approaching steps behind her, as she continued to be violently sick. She wished her mother were here; whenever she was sick as a child her mother was always there, shushing her, rubbing her back, soothing her going 'Alright, darling, alright…'
The sudden chilled thin fingers pulling strands of her hair back away from her face wasn't what she had in mind, but it helped, if it was just for a moment. She felt a dark presence behind her, and one hand on knot of her back. She prayed it might have been her mother, or perhaps or her dear late grandmother, but it was only Jonathan Crane. He wasn't rubbing her back; it was as if he was keeping her in place, to avoid her slumping on the floor and making a mess. He kept holding her hair back, his cold, calloused fingers brushing against the skin on her lower neck. Well this is embarrassing, she thought, and vomited once more. Her lips were chapped. There was a blob of spit on her lower lip. She stopped for a minute, breathing very hard, her throat burning and her stomach muscles aching. Her stomach still wasn't satisfied and she kept vomiting into the toilet bowl, throwing up nothing. She had thrown up nothing since she had woken – but she had drunk a hell of a lot last night…why wasn't she spewing it up?
"Come on. You need to eat, otherwise you will cause damage if you keep vomiting nothing," she heard his low voice mutter in her ear. He was too close for comfort; she could feel his breath on the rim of her ear. She looked up, towards the window, hearing the sudden rain, seeing droplets of rainwater slide down the outside.
Tears began to fall out her eyes, in company with the rain. The last thing she could remember of the night was following Crane into a dodgy-looking pub. That was it. Her body felt like it had been thrown about a bit, and she dreaded to think she had slept with anyone. Her head was thumping, extremely hard. Keeping down her vomit for now, she turned around and slumped against the toilet, not even glancing at Crane, who was on his haunches. She started to cry in front of him, not bothering to bring up a hand to wipe away her tears or her runny nose.
Her face was grey. He tried to glance away, nostrils flaring, but not in anger. Usually he liked seeing people cry – they were frightened when they did so. But hers was not out of fear, it was out of despair. She looked unresponsive by his presence. He then sensed she could not remember anything of what happened last night. He saw the damage on her head. He almost felt simultaneously surprised and pleased with himself. If only she could remember – she'd be trembling in fear now. He put a hand softly on her lower thigh, hoping she would look at him.
She did so, very briefly, before unable to take his intense gaze. She started to sob a little, little gasps emitting from her mouth, her chest heaving up and down. He sighed inside a little, but felt extremely uncomfortable in front of her. She was sobbing genuine tears of despair and self-loathing. That could have been a delight to him, but there was no fear there. Why was there no fear there? He stood up, towering over her, and purposely took his face cloth, and ran some hot and cold water together. He bent back down, his muscles screaming in protest, not used to the strenuous stretching. He ignored her tears and dabbed a little at the handy work he'd done on the side of her head. All her hair was dried into the wound. There was also a flake of paint from the kitchen wall. She flinched exceedingly hard, jumping a few centimetres away. She pushed his hand away after a moment.
"You want help or not?" he snapped. Another couple of tears exited her eyes.
"You might have concussion, Grace," he spoke more softly this time, and a sudden expression of utter loathing crossed her face, the tears useless now on her ashen face.
"You might have a giant arse hole." He gritted his teeth, and stood back up, resisting the urge to have his way with her for once and for all. He washed his flannel underneath the tap, seeing her blood emit from the material into the water. The blood that he had caused to leak out of her. He remembered hearing her screech in pain, her eyes looking at him with abhorrence. But it was only revulsion and physical pain she felt! Why was there no fear? He tried to imagine the cause of her injuries was the result of the fear he had instilled. He gripped the material tightly in his thin hands in the water, sloshing it about. There was a yellow stain on the cloth now. Her blood, probably staining it permanently now. He suddenly felt inexplicably aroused, not understanding himself. What was this, high school all over again? His loathing for her was intensified – oh how he hated her for stirring things inside him which he had not felt for years. He had tried to deny it, tried to hold it down. The wench, the filthy wench, he'd show her the true meaning of fear. If she was really terrified she would have not cried in front of him. She did not care what he thought of her. She did not make him feel like himself. No one had got to him like this since school, he hadn't let them. He held down the urge again, the urge to go back to his room, grab his apparatus and give her what she definitely deserved….
He was ripped from his thoughts when he heard the familiar sound of her coughing. She was hunched over the bowl again. He grabbed one of the hair-bands she kept inside the bathroom cabinet and tightly pulled her straggly hair back. He made sure it was tight enough to hurt her, and stood back up, leaving the room. He slammed the door behind her.
When she felt well enough to drag herself from the floor, she stripped herself of her clothes, and turned the shower on; making sure it was burning hot. She pulled her hair down, frowning at how rough he had been. He had been careful at first; well, she had been rude to him, he had only been trying to help her. She felt a small pinch of guilt; perhaps he was just misunderstood, perhaps he was extremely socially awkward, perhaps he had a terrible violent past. She saw he had used his face cloth to wipe her blood, which she found deeply odd, and somewhat unnerving. Well, he might have not given it a thought, but it was rather eccentric, nearly a kind gesture – dirtying his cloth instead of hers. She chucked her tights into the bin. She threw her clothes into the washing basket. Her head was still thumping, like someone was banging a gong in her mind frequently. She spent about half an hour in the shower, trying to wash the impurities of last night off her body.
She grabbed her razor and skimmed around the line of her pubic hair and under her armpits. She gave her hair a wash a couple of times. Even when she had stopped washing, she couldn't bring herself to come out of the shower. She stood there, letting the hot water cascade down her pale body. She wriggled her toes, chipped blue nail varnish on them, beneath her. She traced the grimy gaps in between the tiles. She looked out the patterned window, that was open an inch. For once it was not raining outside, but it would not last long. She was tired of hoping each day would hurry and blend into the next. Hoping that each day would be better than the last. She began singing a tune she had stuck in her head for days on end, one she couldn't remember the name of. When she ran out of the words to sing, she began to whistle again, watching the light outside, unmoving, feeling the water slide over her soothingly.
When she exited the bathroom, steam drifting out with her, she immediately decided on a cup of tea. She slipped her shabby smelly dressing gown over her towel and wandered downstairs, oblivious to what Crane was doing. She wished they had a pleasant living room with a television so she could kip on the sofa with a pizza and lots of chocolate for after. That was usually her hangover cure. Unfortunately she would have to make do with tea and her breezy bedroom. She walked down the stairs, humming to a tune, until she saw a shadow cast on the tiles of the kitchen floor, and saw it was him again. She jumped in fright, thankful he hadn't seen her yet. He was stood beside the window of the kitchen, one hand casually, rather uncharacteristically, stuffed in his grey trouser pocket, the other perched on the window sill. His long white fingers were bent like a spider's legs. He seemed to be intensely watching something, deep in thought. She stood there, frowning at what he was staring at. A magpie was perched on the railings of the balcony. The railings were wet with last night's rain, and one of its claws slipped a little. It glanced around, hopping along the metal railing. When the bird cawed, its beak opened wide and its throat heaved up and down energetically.
It swivelled its head around a little, catching other birds flying past it. He squawked a couple of times, the wind ruffling it's white and black feathers. She smiled softly, for a moment she was jealous of the beautiful bird and its wings. Grace saw Crane was grinding his jaw, barely able to restrain himself from scaring the bird off. She watched his composure crumble and he tapped viciously on the window and the bird instantly took off, its wings taking it away. She raised her eyebrows; he was almost childlike in this gesture. She shrugged to herself, highly indifferent to what he was doing today. She clattered around the kitchen, filling a bowl full of cereal and boiling the water. She was pondering on the thought of popping to the supermarket to buy lots of food. Strangely enough, she didn't feel the woes of a hangover. She did not feel like someone had shat in her mouth and there wasn't a nauseous feeling lingering at the back of her throat. She didn't feel greatly fatigued; it was just the same thumping at the side of her head. No tremors in her hands. It had been painful washing the blood out of her hair, but as she stood there, washing up her Minnie Mouse mug, something familiar and eerie came to her. Was it last night? It must have been, for she hadn't remembered it before. It was something terrible, and it felt like it had happened within this very room. The cracked yellow paint of the kitchen looked like something out of a lurid tale or film, sneering at her. Shaking her head, she couldn't remember what it was.
"How is your nausea?" came his low raspy voice from directly behind her. She jumped a little, turning around with a scowl on her face.
"Jesus! Do you always have to do that?" He raised his eyebrows innocently. He looked positively delighted. Why is he hanging around me like a lost child today, she thought in bafflement. He wasn't making food or coffee. What was he doing in the kitchen? His fingers, nails still bitten horribly short, picked at a piece of flaking paint on the wall, distractedly. The condition of his skin on his hands was appalling; it looked as if it was a severe case of eczema. Little flecks of white skin, surrounding more red severely dry areas, so scaly and red it appeared infected. He was wearing a holed, tatty jumper again, that looked like they had been put through the wash ten dozen times and dragged through a bramble bush. He seemed rather scruffy today; the usual greasy hair in place, but his glasses skew-whiff and his white shirt poked out from under his jumper. His ashen face looked just as sickly as hers did.
"Do what?"
"The standing creepily behind me thing. I would say it suits you, but I don't want to give you any ideas." He snickered at her again, not removing his eyes from her, and she had to laugh at herself. His eyes didn't waver from her own, occasionally glancing just below her throat. She perfectly knew what he was staring at; her junkie scars. He seemed to do that, quite often, thinking she wouldn't see it. But she did, every time. For a brief moment, a very brief moment, she forgot about his hostility, and his rudeness and violence, and felt like confiding in him, human to human. She asked a simple question instead.
"Jonathan, what happened last night?"
"You became very intoxicated…." She saw him pause for breath, sucking air in through is nostrils. She tapped her foot, aware the shower water was rolling off her skin tantalisingly, highlighted by the bright light drifting in from the grey day outside. "And you were embarrassing." She nodded, frowning at the floor, not really caring if she was embarrassing or not. She had far worse nights. She glanced back up, seeing he was gazing outside attentively. A set of magpies were squawking at each other, perched atop a tree, ruffling the leaves.
"Magpies are intelligent birds. Did you know they can recognise their own reflection in a mirror?" She didn't bother to answer him as she poured milk into her granola and plenty into her tea. She knew that already, well, heard it from someone. She saw him frown at her after she placed the milk back in the fridge.
"Why are you using my cereal?" She shrugged, and fed herself a spoon of it and flounced off. She wasn't in the mood for him today, whatsoever, and went to go upstairs, but inexplicably he followed her. She sighed inwardly; she had a double lesson in an hour or so. She had to say this behaviour was unnerving; he was searching for something in her face, in her eyes. You will find nothing, she thought coldly.
"Have you class today? Well, not class, those art sessions or whatever you have," he tried to speak casually and it failed, deflated like a balloon. She frowned, sensing his snobbery immediately; she knew he did not approve of her degree, he probably thought he was superior to everyone else in the University. She gritted her teeth in irritation. Was he trying to drive her up the wall? He looked at her innocently, small eyes wide and flashing authority.
"You think you have the entire world at your feet, don't you? You think you're so bloody smart," she snapped at him. For the first time, an itching came to her right hand - she wanted to smack that smirk right off his face. His plump lips were raised in a half smile, his eyebrows raised over his frames condescendingly and cheeks sucked in like he was sucking on something. She quite frankly loathed him.
"I don't think I am, Grace, I know I am." She scoffed at him, shaking her shoulders in laughter, some of her newly made tea sloshing over the rim of her mug.
"Yeah, you've conceit enough to make up for all the other qualities you lack." She was going to continue up the stairs; she didn't have the strength to fight him today. She couldn't help but shake with anger at his haughtiness. Whatever undergraduate and postgraduate certificates he gained in the States, now a PhD, he seemed to act like he had been scraping the skin off his bones for his education; whatever his studying amounted to, it would be the best of the best. His voice sounded out, before her toes could touch the next step. She halted, somewhat irritably.
"The thing is Grace; you're wasting your time. You try to put everyone down because you know you're not good enough. You know really, that this degree isn't amounting to anything." She felt like he had punched her in the stomach. Her face puckered into a frown, wanting to hit him.
"Excuse me? Mr fancy-pants? Mr I'm too good for anyone and anything? Fuck you," she spat back at him, spraying a bit of spit. His haunting stare continued, looking her up and down in that cool offensive way of his, without flinching.
And with that, she continued to climb the stairs, unbothered by what he thought, what he might have said or whether that drove him to fury. If he laid another hand on her again, she was moving out; her hangover was that bad, that particular morning. She even had an idea to phone her parents and speak her mind. Fortunately, or unfortunately, she didn't and sorted herself out for University. Sensing she looked like hell, she put on a tiny amount of makeup but dressed in a baggy grey t-shirt and leggings. By the time she was ready, not bothering to look at herself in the mirror, the rain had began to fall lightly, outside, thankfully. She pulled on her tattered coat, seeing it was hung up delicately on the banister. The usual grey day hung above her drably as she walked her usual ten minute walk to campus, up and down several hills. Other students filed in with her and past her, some looking at her curiously.
She had no motivation for her course at the moment. She was slowly building up a portfolio of her work, the theme was saturation. Her project was taking the mundane and ugly in life and making them beautiful. But she hadn't touched her camera for a while. She had just been sketching out of her mind. All the other students around her were already creating Van Gogh's on canvases. She was sitting in the corner, tired, miserable and lost, constantly sketching a biscuit packet. It was making her feel mundane. She felt like the useless student in Heather Lugh's class. She felt like the untalented, stupid inferior student. She knew she was wallowing in self-pity and sucked it up when she saw Lisa flinging paint at Aaron playfully. The other students in her class were busy getting on with their own projects. One guy had spread out his workspace that nearly took up most the area they were allocated, with newspaper on the floor, littered with paint boxes, his shoes and his hoodie, and a stack of magazines. He was busy working on a large paper-mache that was supposed to resemble an unclothed woman. Grace stared at it disdainfully for a moment, before she heard Lisa's loud splutter of laughter, which made the paper-mache student jump a little, getting a lump of glue on his thumb. She hadn't realised she was drenched from the light rain outside, which the wind had blown into her face and into her hair all the way down. She saw Lisa and Aaron looking at her amusedly.
"What?" she snapped, sitting down, getting her paint brushes out of her holdall grumpily. She really needed to get down to the nearest art shop and buy some canvases, and some more linseed oil. She absentmindedly shook her empty bottle, letting Lisa stare at her for a while longer.
"It's raining outside?" Lisa asked, bringing Grace to lift her head. She nodded, and then realised, with a drop in her stomach.
"Is it bad?" she sighed. Lisa was biting her lower lip, and Aaron had already turned himself around to avoid Grace's sour mood.
"Well," Lisa waved her ringed fingers around, sliver catching off the overhead grey light streaming in from the ceiling windows. "It's bad. It's Jackson Pollock." Grace spent a minute rootling around in her bag until she found her compact mirror and hairbrush that her Grandmother gave to her when she was in the hospital. She gazed at her face; mascara, all over her face, yet again. Her face creased up in annoyance, but pondering on Lisa's comment, the sides of her mouth lifted up in amusement. Lisa joined in her laughter. She hadn't begun her work either, and her workspace was filled with lots of magazine cut outs and several used tubes of acrylic paint, along with a tube of Pritt-Stick.
She had a large canvas with a woman sketched out on it. Her subject matter was hair. Grace remembered her telling her about this painting, which was going to look like a standard advert but showing the woman unshaved. Something about the restraints of society in any case. The amusement of her ruined makeup to Grace didn't last long though. She popped to the toilets, and wiped all her mascara off. She didn't know why she bothered. Who was she trying to impress, again? Lisa spent the next half hour talking about Jackson Pollock to Heather Lugh. When she stopped nattering away, she turned to draw extensively on her canvas, before a group of boys passed by the open door of the studio, curiously poking their heads in. Grace glanced up slowly to look at them, as their eyes flew straight towards Lisa's shameless portrayal of her naked, unshaved woman. The tall blonde boy, presumably the leader, called to Lisa, but she didn't even blink. Heather Lugh was cornering another student, dreamily talking away.
"Hey! You know, do you know somewhere where I can date one of those chicks? I mean I find girls like those really hot, you know? Just wanna toast em," he spoke loudly, making his friends snigger. Grace could feel Lisa's irritation sizzle in the warm air. "I mean I am all for embracing natural beauty and not conforming. You one of those? Could you help me out-"
"Get fucked, you taint, this isn't a dating session," spoke Lisa, without even turning her head, her long blonde hair hanging in her face. His friends seem to laugh in embarrassment, and the boy's cheeks tinted a rather pretty pink, before turning away. Several of the class snorted, before turning back to their work. Grace produced a small smile. After a while, she stopped bothering with her project and began to sketch photographs of her Grandmother from memory, as she knew her. Lisa began to go up to every other student in the class and talk for Wales and back, before sensing Grace's misery. The girl hadn't seen such a sorrowful sight. Grace's head was bent low, lank mousey brown hair falling into her face, the corners of her mouth drooping. Lisa didn't expect to see any tears, dropping onto the sketchpad directly opposite her face. Lisa was sat on a swivel chair, and rolled herself across the room, wheels riding over paper-mache guy's newspapers. He turned around in haughty irritation. Lisa slammed her hands down onto the table that Grace sat upon.
"So we hate life and we hate men and we need fun. Want to go bowling and get drunk?"
So they went bowling. The bowling alley was on the other side of town, in a rather rough run-down area. It was down a few side streets that held various corner shops and markets run by Indian families, crumbling pubs with grey-haired men chain-smoking, a mixture of young men and women dressed in tracksuits and trainers. An overweight woman pushed a large pushchair along the cracked bubblegum-ridden pavement, one hand holding a cigarette, the other on the handle of the pushchair. Her one-year old child held a chewed rubber toy, shaking it erratically, and whimpering when he realised his mother wasn't taking any notice of him.
Grace could smell kebab and fried chicken in the air. As Lisa chatted away about the blonde guy she recently got with, they walked down this decrepit almost distressed street, smoke streaming from chimneys of terraced houses further down, and the smell of beer and smoke wafting through her senses. This only further lowered her mood. By the time they began bowling, it wasn't long before the pints of cider were poured, and the lowness that she had felt soon began to sift away. Several of Lisa's housemates joined them, and the crowd of them dominated the noise within the bowling alley, causing the other people, mainly the elderly or unemployed, to roll their eyes in aggravation. By the time she was on her forth pint of cider, the sky outside had darkened, and younger people were filing in.
The smell of sizzling hamburgers drifted through the stuffy air temptingly. The flashing lights of the game area were in one corner, while the fast food area was in the other, stuffed with more people than the actual bowling alley. Grace lost her worry, as her world soon filtered into one of mislaid inhibitions and reckless abandon. She began drunkenly flirting with Lisa's male housemates, who drunkenly accepted it. She and Lisa spluttered with laughter as they peed in the ladies toilets, sharing a cubicle together, splattering water everywhere, and checking their wet shoes for ends of toilet-roll paper. She began to swing the bowling balls a little too enthusiastically, still knocking over two of three pins pathetically. The group became rowdier. Lisa was behind her, joined by the blonde guy, whose name she learned was Cormack.
She had six pints of cider before Lisa was shouting from behind her to chuck it very hard, in order to score better. She thought of Crane's callous words, like sharp arrows flung from tightly strung bows, and his analytical sharp-gazed look from under his lenses. She chucked the bowling ball a little too vigorously. She drew all her might into throwing it, and let go of it too late. It smashed straight into the ceiling, instantly popping a light off, and plaster flew straight to the floor. A heinous cacophony of laughter erupted from behind her.
They were kicked out and fined within a space of fifteen minutes, receiving an assortment of dirty, angered looks. Without a single thought about Crane, she invited the lot back to her house, the remembrance of her first undergraduate days like sweet sugar on the tip of her tongue.
Her increased wildness, libido, the doleful need to take drugs again; the alcohol swamped her like a large terrifying wave of water. They burst into the house, like hyenas on a feast-searching rampage. The old wooden door slammed and shuddered against the tiled wall behind, as the mass of drunken twenty-somethings stampeded into the darkened corridor of that hateful, musty-smelling house. They burst into the kitchen. A couple of boys pulled out a couple of frozen hamburgers from the freezer. They sniggered at the poor selection of food in there. Lisa dived into Crane's cupboard, and found nothing of value there.
"I would make a mess of it anyway," laughed Grace. They tipped all his coffee, down the drain. All the sugar. All the cereal into the rubbish. Whatever was left in his cupboard, eggs, self-raising flour, gravy granules, a banana, Lisa made into a disgusting horrible mush, and then started throwing it at the boys. The kitchen soon became a place of screaming hysterical laughter, and food thrown in every direction. Cormack took everything out of the fridge; thankfully Grace didn't have much in there. He kindly asked Grace which was her milk, and then threw Crane's milk in every possible nook and cranny. Whatever was edible within the place was thrown at another person, onto the floor, onto the cupboards, onto the walls, anywhere within sight. The boys ate their now burnt hamburgers, before chasing the girls around the house, feet stamping like a herd of elephants. With alcohol comes reckless abandon, and Grace did not once consider the consequences. She almost felt like banging on his door and asking for a night of wild sex. Hahaha! She cackled in her mind. She charged around the house, losing Lisa briefly. One of the boys, named Kieran, started pounding on Crane's door.
"Housekeeping!" Grace stumbled into the bathroom, desperate for a piss, before emitting a terrified, drunken scream. Lisa came out gradually from the shower curtain, clutching her side in laughter.
"For God's sake Leese, you know I'm jumpy!" she cried out, hitting Lisa playfully on the arm. Kieran was still pounding. It seemed to be the last memory of the night, although the night had clearly not ended.
By the time she woke up next morning, her head burst with pain, but not the pain she had in her head earlier that day. Her duvet covers were on the floor. A wine bottle was strewn across her messy desk. A warm body was next to hers, on her right side, breathing heavily, the hairy chest moving up and down. She gazed at his tuft of hair. He slept on his stomach, head drawn towards her, mouth wide open, a thick line of dribble hanging out of his mouth. She frowned. She gazed down the length of his body, at his hairy arse, and his still-socked feet. She briefly glanced at his clothes on the floor.
Orange t-shirt, baggy ripped jeans. There was residue of egg and flour on the t-shirt. Her room was a bomb site. All her clothes were on the floor, and she sat there, shivering in the cold morning light of the day, completely unclothed. She saw the remainders of last night stained on her light pink bedcover. She closed her eyes briefly, momentarily hating herself. She buried her head in her arms for several minutes, dragging her knees up to her chest. Gradually, she stood up and wrapped her warm fluffy dressing gown around her. She had dreamt something terrible last night, for once it was not her addiction.
It was her failed relationship and what a price it paid. She had made the mistake of sleeping with a boy soon after the relationship dissipated, on a terribly messy night out. The guy had been unable to leave her alone soon after, persistent almost to the level of creepy – although no male could compare to Crane, she decided. The one time she gave in and met up with the boy, her ex-boyfriend Charlie and all his mates were there, in the coffee shop, zeroing in on her and her date. What a coincidence, yet all they could do were snigger and occasionally cackle at her. It was like being back in school again. She point-blank ignored it, until the word of her being a junkie-whore spread like wildfire across campus. Then she began to realise her life and its miserable prospects and what a mess she had made of it. What years she had wasted, drinking and injecting poison into her body. She could have had it worse. Although some of her veins were collapsed, she was malnourished and overtired; she knew some who had it worse.
She bent down and picked up bits of beef and bread off the floor, wrinkling her nose. She picked up her duvet and put it over him, covering his rather nauseating hairy, manly body, a clear reminder of what new lows she had come to. She picked up his jeans and a discarded condom fell from it, plopping to the floor. She shuddered, and picked it up with a tissue and put it into a separate bin bag. The boy suddenly snored loudly, and her insides churned. His name was Ben, and he was one of Lisa's housemates.
She gazed back at his tuft of curly black hair, and realised what a fool she had been last night. If she hadn't felt self-loathing enough yesterday, she certainly felt it today. It was too late to deny it now that she had thrown the evidence into the rubbish, and that every time she moved the physical evidence soon reared its ugly head. She would scrub herself clean in the shower, glancing at the inside of her thigh.
She bit her lip, hearing a sudden, rather uncanny bashing downstairs. The memory befell her abruptly, like a ton of bricks falling to the ground. She and her friends had made an absolute mess of the kitchen downstairs; ravished it and ruined it like a herd of animals. She sat down at her dressing table, glancing at herself. Her face was pale as the day outside, and her hair appeared as if had been backcombed several times. Her dressing gown had parted as she had sat down, revealing a plump swollen breast. There was a circular green bruise at the tip of her bosom. She rolled her eyes.
As she lowered her eyes, she noticed there was a certain darkness. She quickly pulled open her gown. Staring back at her in the dusty mirror was her normal pale body, marred by abhorrent, explicitly imposing bruising. It was a straight line of bruises, the oddest thing she had ever seen, all lined under her ribs. Like she had been pushed against something. How on earth…She stood up a little, pressing the tips of her fingers against the discolouration of the skin. She tried her best not to wince at the livid skin. She turned slowly around to gaze at the boy on her bed. Surely not….But how on earth did she get it? It must have been the night before, the one she didn't remember. But it wasn't a drunken, stupid bruise; it was one from brute force.
The clatters downstairs were becoming louder. Her mobile phone suddenly buzzed from somewhere, and she spent the next ten minutes trying to find it. Lisa had said she'd gone home, with the others. Mate…are you alive? The kitchen is a fuckin mess. If he gets funny come to mine, yeah? Grace tried to ignore the niggling sensation in her stomach, slowly pulling on whatever she could find. A white t-shirt, light blue jeans. She stuffed her bare feet, sore for some reason, into her converses. She didn't bother with makeup and brushed her straw-like hair back into a loose bun. Finally she summoned the utmost of strengths and nudged the boy slightly with one finger. He stirred a little, breathing out a snore, very loudly. She winced, closing her eyes tightly. She re-opened them, and nudged the boy again, very hard. He started a little, and slowly realised his surroundings. He turned onto his back, showing her a not-so lovely view of his pale naked body. She looked away pointedly.
"Oh fuck…." He moaned, and sat up quickly. He had stubble around his jaw. A speck of egg yolk was in his hair. She had placed his clothes, neatly folded on the edge of the bed. Grace was unsure what to do. He asked for a glass of water, rubbing his eyes tiredly, as he slipped his boxers and jeans on. She grabbed a dirty glass from her bedside table, and went to the bathroom. She paused on the landing, hearing for the noises downstairs. She could hear him clattering still. He was furious. She thanked her lucky stars she had a lot of work to do today, and that she wasn't feeling the sickly fatigued pangs of a hangover. She filled the glass, and when she returned the boy had dressed himself completely. She handed it to him roughly, some of the water sloshing over the rim. He drank it in one gulp, and stood up. He shuffled his feet awkwardly.
"You know the exit," Grace said to him. She hadn't felt this awkward in quite a few years.
"Thanks for-"
"Yeah." She interrupted. He nodded, sensing this girl was not going to say anything further, and abruptly left. As soon as she heard the front door close cautiously, she quickly began to get ready for University, glancing at the time. One in the afternoon. Terrified he would suddenly knock on her door, she threw everything together in the space of five minutes and crept down the stairs, hoping he would've deciphered that the boy had been her leaving. The stairs creaked, as she slowly walked down them, her holdall held tightly in her hands. She could hear him scrubbing something; it was fierce, fast scrubbing. She got to the end of the stairs and walked very quickly towards the front door. The scrubbing stopped when she touched the handle of the front door. She escaped outside. It was sunny, for once.
It took a couple hours to clean the detestable mess. Two hours of his time, that could be doing something important.
Typically she had not showed up, although he could hear the door close this morning. He could hear her creeping down the stairs, soon after, presumably, her partner for the night. As he scrubbed the disgusting floor, ridding it of egg yolk and coffee grains, he felt he couldn't loathe Grace Gilmartin any more. He felt even now this was the limit, although he doubted within a small space of time she could make herself likeable. Not that he found anyone in particular 'likeable'. His frayed brown trousers became dirty from the tidying and cleaning. There was a bead of sweat on his forehead. He had already taken off his glasses, which were covered in muck. His usual greasy hair fell lank into his eyes. Each stroke he gave to the floor, he tried to control his rage, but he couldn't. It hadn't mattered that they might've woken him up last night.
He had already been awake. Pacing to and fro on the threadbare carpet, clad in his nightclothes, a once white t-shirt and thin cotton trousers with holes in them. Pieces of paper were strewn all over the room, highlighted by the lamp shining brightly from his desk. It appeared like an interrogation room; the study lamp and the swivel chair, the strewn papers everywhere, the darkness. The dark corner of the room sat a makeshift metal table with jagged edges; it had been crudely put together. On it sat tubs and beakers and other equipment of a various types. A small machine sat beside a rusty Bunsen burner, its red light glaring. The walls of the room were damp, and there was mould growing under the window, where the curtains had been drawn, and never touched by him.
His insomnia was getting worse, and whatever sleep he did receive he only dreamed of strange, eccentric happenings, ones he could not decipher, and ones which gave him ideas. The amount of toxin he had exposed to himself now, made him somewhat indifferent to whatever nightmares he had. He was becoming immune to the previous batch; it had depressed him like none other. He had taken care to dispose of it carefully, just two nights ago, when that girl interfered. He had large dark circles underneath his eyes he couldn't get rid of. There was an ashen look to his face whenever he glanced briefly into the mirror, only when he had to. He had been glancing at his new, nearly-ready batch, so tempted to retrieve the real him, open the door, and gas them all, scare them all to death. Especially her. He had heard her scream last night. She had been intoxicated with alcohol, but the sound that had emitted from her voice was genuine.
And as he stood in the shower that morning, when all of them were still sound asleep, he thought of her scream, the guttural high-pitched wail that one he was so acquainted with. Mindlessly washing himself, squeezing the soap tightly in his hand, the sound of her scream reverberated throughout his mind, over and over again, until he couldn't bear it and leant against the grimy tiled wall, the near-cold water streaming over his bony shoulders and down his back. He envisioned witnessing her reaction to his new batch of toxin. How he would give her a dose so concentrated, her body would spasm. She would foam at the mouth. Her eyes would roll into the back of her head.
The steam of the shower drifted in through his nose as he pushed his forehead harder into the tiles. He imagined wrapping his spindly fingers around her windpipe, pressing his thumbs down on her prominent scars. He could feel her skin break and her bones crunch underneath his fingers. He wouldn't even allow her to beg. He wanted to wipe her away quickly as she had come into his life.
She was his to manipulate and his alone. Perhaps he had to try a different method. Manipulate her in a different way, perhaps he could coax her towards fright using not such a hostile manner. But he could not help it. It was difficult to be kind, to be civil. As he closed his eyes, he began to see red under his eyelids. The hoarse scream that came from her throat last night kept running through his mind, as he still pressed his forehead against the tiles, so hard the skin began to spilt a little. He began to see her lifeless body on the ground, mind mutated, her face frozen in a frame of fright. He could not bear to be around someone who was of such ill repute, always never showing any kind of fear of him, just casual nonchalance.
It was only when he was up close and personal that her murky eyes wavered in that oh-so delicious way when terror struck the senses. And as much as he loathed any sort of physical contact, unless truly necessary, he had enjoyed the feel of her trembling underneath him. Before he even realised what had occurred, a certain kind of arousal struck him, one that he hadn't felt in years. He tried to remember the last time anything of that kind had happened. It had been years and years ago, before any of his great ideas had come to him. When the taunts of the other teenagers had still affected him. He angrily switched the shower off, dried and clothed his body as quickly as he could. He would enjoy it when she came home, if she would. He knew she was apprehensive of his reaction.
It was the most delectable thought ever.
When Grace got home, she tried to ignore the swirling in her stomach, and her tight throat.
She also tried to fully acknowledge her hangover, now that she was home after a rather unproductive session in the art studio. Unsurprisingly Lisa wasn't there, but neither were Heather Lugh and a few other students. It had been a student night after all. She visited the local corner shop, and grabbed everything that was suitable and appealed to her. Dorritos, dip, a bottle of coke, several cartons of fruit juice, Heinz tomato soup, a bar of chocolate, Hob-nobs, shortbread with chocolate chunks in them, a large box of Earl Grey tea, a jar of marmite, a loaf of crusty white bread and lastly a large mozzarella pizza with sundried tomatoes and pesto. She was going to go back home and stuff her face.
She grabbed digestive biscuits, marshmallows and another bar of chocolate on her way out. Smores it was. Perhaps she could win him over with these, she joked in her head. The house as usual was dark and quiet as a church mouse. Her plastic bags made an impressionable racket as she stumbled inside, cursing and trying to find the light switch. By the time she shoved the pizza into the little rusty oven, she still hadn't heard anything from upstairs. The kitchen seemed to be spotless. Very spotless. It didn't take long to make the smores. The smell of pesto and grilled cheese drifted through the air. She mashed one last smore and laid it out on a plate. The oven ticked once the pizza was done, and she took it out, cursing again when she caught the edge of her thumb on the baking tray. The place was almost too spotless. She opened his cupboard. There was nothing in there except his crockery. She frowned, perturbed why he hadn't bothered to replenish his food. There was a creak in the floorboard unexpectedly, and since she was on her guard, she slammed the cupboard shut and span around swiftly. Her lips were puckered together and her eyebrows were raised.
She looked like a guilty child, hands raised up clutched together at her chest. Crane stood there, towering as usual, his tatty clothes hanging off him limply, hands stuffed deep into his trouser pockets. It was a rather casual gesture, and she tried to read whether he was irate or merely pissed off. When she caught the sign in those blind-like eyes, she realised the latter was probably false. They both stood there for a moment, the hum of the fridge sounding in the background, a filler for the pregnant pause. It was so quiet she could hear him breathe out through his nose. Her heart was thumping very hard, but she couldn't help but pick off a sundried tomato from the pizza. He didn't move his eyes from hers. He took his hands out of his pockets. He appeared thinner than usual, and his normal pale eyes were darkened from the bags under his eyes.
"You have anything to say, about last night, Grace?" His nose wrinkled and his nostrils flared when he spoke, as if he was trying his best not to spit her name out. She managed to take a deep breath, glancing at her smores. They sat there looking sorry for themselves.
"All I can say, is I'm very sorry," she answered quite flatly.
"Is that all you can do?" he sneered at her. He stood there sort of awkwardly, hands hanging down by his sides, as if he wasn't sure what to do with his rather lanky round-shouldered posture. She shrugged at him, knowing it would probably infuriate him. She definitely wasn't going to grovel, like he expected her to do. He was just that type. Instead she reached over her pizza towards the plate of smores, and picked one up. The biscuit wasn't doing well to hold the marshmallow and chocolate together. She shakily held it out, hoping he didn't notice her trembling. Her heart hammered so hard, she was sure he could hear it in the silence of the room.
"Here. I made one especially for you. For last night, and for telling you to fuck off that morning. Let's be friends." She thought her words sounded juvenile, but she was trying to be sincere. He was gazing at her curiously, completely caught off guard. Once more his eyes drifted down to her collarbones. He seemed to do it every time he ever looked at her – either that or he was looking at her neck, waiting for an opportune moment to strangle the life out of it. She suppressed a shiver.
"Correction, you actually said 'fuck you,' if I remember right. And friendship is something I have not experienced fully. Why would I want to begin it now?" She thought, despite his cold tone, he was speaking sarcastically. There was a small smirk in the corner of his mouth. If it had been anyone else, she would've been hurt, but this man was not worth getting your knickers twisted about. Clearly. She waved the smore at him, in irritation.
"Here. This is what Americans have isn't it?"
"You presume I eat this?" She sure hoped she had touched a nerve, if he had any.
"Did you not when you were younger?" she snapped. He seemed to be moving close to her, which was rather remarkable, because she had not noticed until the pallid colour of his face became more prominent under the kitchen light. Once more, the pock-marked skin on his face was brought into the unsightly light.
"No. My grandmother never let me have things like that." She tried to stem the morbid memory of him talking about his grandmother, just before he had hit her. He was playing her like a fiddle, she surmised. She sighed in exasperation.
"I'm not in the mood for sob stories. Take one."
"I don't like things like this." She raised her eyebrows incredulously. She wondered if he even ate.
"You don't like biscuit, chocolate and marshmallow?" she asked. He fully smirked at her this time. She wasn't sure what frightened her the most; his anger or this playful behaviour which had him smirking.
"It's made with cracker, not-" He glanced sideways at the packet of biscuits on the countertop. "Not 'Digestive Biscuits.' You've made it wrong," he responded. Her eyes fluttered in frustration. He watched her reaction with interest, but he cut her next sentence in half quickly.
"Good night last night?" He was still smirking, and ran his tongue over his front teeth. For once he did not wear that unresponsive face of a corpse as an expression, she mused. She stood stock still, trying not to look at his mouth. The sly bastard, she thought. She was not the blushing type, yet she felt the heat rise to her face, hoping it was out of anger rather than embarrassment. He watched her reaction with interest.
"You think I'm as stupid as I look, don't you? That I'm some commoner with a funny accent and tatty clothes? Piss off!" She flung the smore right in his face. Bits of biscuit had broken upon impact and flung into different directions when colliding with his bony nose. He recoiled a little, not expecting it. She picked up her pizza and rushed out of the room, heading for her bedroom. She didn't expect him to walk slowly after her. She almost felt his shadow looming behind her enshroud her very being. She tried not to run.
"Grace!" he called, somewhat harshly. It unnerved her, as she went up the stairs, holding her pizza down with one finger. He called her name again, a little more loudly. She reached the top of the stairs, spinning around the landing, towards her room. She was ever so thankful there was a lock on her door.
"GRACE!" he shouted. She doubted that he simply wanted to talk to her. His last yell of her name signalled that exactly. She made sure to stay in her room for the rest of the night, watching telly on her netbook and stuffing her face. Perhaps she should have gone over to Lisa's. But her body moulded into the mattress of her bed already, and the fatigue of a hangover caused her limbs to fall dead. She loved hangovers. If only he wasn't there to ruin it.
It was over a week later, and it had not rained. Spells of sunnyness, period of over-clouding and dullness. She wasn't keen on going to campus when she let her eyes flutter open at one o' clock, but as she was behind on her work, there was no other choice. She was sick of feeling persistently exhausted, although partially it was her fault. Her body clock had adjusted over the years, since her addiction. She was accustomed to going to bed at one in the morning, every morning, sometimes later. She hadn't heard a peep from her creepy housemate, but she hadn't given it much thought as she stumbled down the stairs. She was a heavy sleeper and he often had the step of a mouse. Grace Gilmartin often wondered if he spent more time mooning angrily about her than she him; he probably did.
Pushing him roughly from her thoughts, realising he was not worth the time and, quite clearly, the effort. He had hardly been around that week. Whenever she saw him he seemed to take himself out of her sight, often quickly, suspiciously she thought. Sometimes she heard his whisper of a voice coming from his room; either he was talking to himself or someone on the phone. She couldn't imagine who he'd be talking to; he stated clearly, at least in her eyes, he didn't want friends. Too above for anyone, unable to come off that throne he had built out of insecurity.
She trudged along the brightened streets; instantly the town appeared more jovial and serene in the sunlight, tree branches swaying against the graceful backdrop of a light blue sky. Her holdall carrying her paints and other utensils smacked against the side of her leg roughly, one which seemed to throb. Not another mysterious bruise? Despite presuming she had drunk herself to disgrace on the night of the postgraduate event, she couldn't help but greatly suspect that it was not all hunky-dory as it seemed. All she could think what happened was that she stumbled home after following Crane, perhaps returned back to the evening first. Then she stumbled home, falling over several times.
That would explain the throbbing on her upper leg. But it did not explain the disgusting bruise just under her ribs. It was still there, after a week. The discolouration was so vivid she thought perhaps she ought to check it out. However, she left it, realising to think she had internal bleeding was a ridiculous notion. Crane's answer about that night just seemed like his usual haughty reply, but she knew with every inch of her logic that he was not to be trusted. Had he hurt her again? Absurdly, she felt like she needed to bruise that lanky body of his; it was so thin it looked like it could snap easily. One smash with a hockey stick and he'd be gone….
If only she was still gifted with hockey and bothered to join the hockey team at the University, despite hating all those athletic types. She had been at Feston University for over a month now, and she still hadn't attempted to call her parents, and vice versa. After trudging onto campus with all the other lacklustre students, the day was clear still, brightening her spirits a little. By the time she reached the art studio, not anticipating anyone to be there, she was a little pink in the cheeks, and spotted Lisa working on one of the free tables on the other side of the room. She had earphones over her head; face bent low, tongue stuck out at the corner, hair falling onto the messy table.
It was very quiet in the studio, but being a Wednesday afternoon, lectures finished early due to sports. The table was covered with a large abundance of paint-splattered sketchbooks, empty tubes of oil paint, several plastic cups full of dirtied paint water. Lisa's music was blaringly loud, contrasting against the silent tranquillity of the studio. A distant window was open and faintly could hear the call of the blackbird; it was nearing late afternoon, and she felt time was a constantly moving river that she couldn't keep afloat in. Lisa sensed something darken ahead of her, and glanced up, her frown melting into a brief smile. She took her headphones off.
"I hate everything," Grace mumbled, slinging her holdall off her shoulder and dumping it straight on the floor. Lisa smiled, stopping her music, and plopped her paintbrush into a plastic bottle, some water splashing out. Grace picked a stool and sat on it, trying to pull a smile at her friend, wishing she could move in with her. She realised earlier on, it was now out of the question, thinking of the hairy body in her bed over a week ago.
"Is it Johnny?" Grace couldn't help but laugh out loud, and Lisa shortly joined her. When their lungs were expelled of all the air used in laughing, and their stomach muscles clenched painfully, they finally stopped. Lisa fiddled with the wire on her black oversized earphones.
"I have some good news – vacancy at the archive centre where I work." Lisa had a job at the café of the archive and library centre. It was opposite the campus, across the busy main road that went towards York, and surrounded by large, bushy oak trees and backed by a huge car park at the back. Lisa had been working there since the summer; having moved lived in Feston for a year already, saving for her postgraduate. Grace watched Lisa twist the wire around her finger playfully.
"A job in the café?" began Grace excitedly. Lisa tried to not let her face fall, but it did, knowing it would not please her friend.
"No," she began slowly, trying to keep her voice level. "It's a cleaning job, couple hours in the night, finishing at ten. Its bloody good pay, Grace. For a cleaner. I know that's all you've had, but if you really hate it you can just ditch it." Lisa by this point was gazing at Grace fully, trying to keep a smile on her face, seeing Grace's ashen face turn even more to a rather unhealthy colour. She rolled her eyes greatly, forcing her chin into her palm sullenly. Lisa grabbed her shoulder and shook her.
"Come on, doing you a favour mate – besides who cares? You're doing a postgraduate. This is just money for boozing and fooding." Grace gazed at the rather grubby floor for a few minutes, before unable to hold her smile and let out a little snort through her nose, putting her arm around Lisa's shoulders.
"As long as you sneak me cake from the café," she joked. Lisa pinched her on the upper arm.
"Cheeky cow. Done and done. As long as you get me some disinfectant and I can clean the kitchen that the boys' bloody well messed up." Luckily she didn't reveal another quip about her housemate that Grace had drunkenly spent the night with. Whenever Lisa mocked him lightly, thinking he might turn into a cute pink, he instead turned into an angry beetroot red. She left it after that. Lisa was still smiling at her; Grace tilted her head and widened her eyes a little. It seemed to be too late to be doing any work now.
"Me and my other housemates, including Sir Benjamin-"
"Yeah yeah yeah," Grace cut in, waving her hand in the air, causing Lisa's face to crumple into laughter again.
"We've made hundreds of water balloons; it's for a protest, happening on the campus." Grace raised her eyebrows in surprise. She hadn't heard of any protests. Lisa sensed so, and began talking again; something about unfair election in the Student Union and racist behaviour to some candidates. A fairly local, peaceful protest. Lisa began to pack all her things away, slipping her headphones around her neck, and picking up a plastic bag full of water balloons. She said her goodbyes and left Grace to the solitude of the art studio. There was no one else around, oddly enough. Grace pulled out her utensils and began to mix her paints. Might as well get on with some work now and stay until late, she thought begrudgingly.
Grace Gilmartin was in the library several days later when the first stage of her constant anxiety began. She had been in the art studio all day on her own. Lisa had been drinking the night before and was sleeping the day off. It had been a busy day within the studio, mostly full of noisy undergraduates. She had got a lot of work done, having come onto campus around eleven in the morning. She felt motivated and pleased with herself.
Now she had to do some research on an artist related to her project, in the library first, before writing a research journal. Around six in the evening, two hours before her shift, she had already spent a good half an hour looking through every available book that had information on her particular artist that was related to her topic. She had been accepted for the job, it had been fairly easy. She had already spent most of yesterday trying to decide what artist what she wanted to relate to and write about. Now she spent most of today recreating paintings of that artist and now stacking up a large pile of books, most of them large, hardbacked and very heavy.
Despite approaching deadlines for most students as it was the ending of November, the library was very quiet. The art books were down in the basement of the library, which had several levels. She could hear the footsteps of people upstairs. A couple of lights flickered down several rows of books.
The place was immaculate, but the lick of paint that covered the walls, the tiled floors, and the cheap metal bookshelves was decidedly old-fashioned, probably dating back to the sixties or seventies. She was at the end of one row of bookshelves, leaning beside the wall, barely any room for her to move around with all the books she had on the floor at her feet. The bookshelves were very close to each other, tightly squeezed in a small space; it was almost as if they ran out of money or space when building it. She sighed, putting each book back into one separate pile for loaning or back into the places they were in, some not in the correct place. Tiredness fell over her, and she began to regret taking this job, even though it was two hours, five days a week. She flipped through one last book, scanning the page intensely for information. Grace was ignorant of any sounds around her, having become used to the silence.
The smell of the old musty book wafted into her nostrils and as she frowned, gazing down hard at the page, she didn't take heed of the oncoming footsteps, shiny polished shoes upon cheap thin tiles. Frustrated she flicked back and forth over the pages, cursing how there was very little in the library on the artist she wanted. It wasn't until a shadow fell over the white page of the book she was frowning at, did she look up. Immediately she stiffened; she hadn't seen much of him recently, being rather busy, but also being rather uninterested. It seemed the same vice versa, but as he loomed over her, waiting for her to respond, she guessed he was interested this time. She slammed the book shut, and flicked him a brief, unassuming glance, catching the coldness behind his frames before shoving the heavy book back between its companions.
"You very much like your pranks," began Crane, and inwardly a large tidal wave formed a great sigh within her, as she turned to her right. He had stepped back a bit, but due to the proximity between the bookshelves, it seemed he had her cornered.
"They are rather amusing, reminds me of school, almost. I had to teach an entire two-hour seminar with a wet shirt and hair." Oh, it seemed to click within her, as she remembered Lisa's protest gesture the other day. Obviously the girl had spotted Crane from a distance and lobbed a water balloon at him. Grace did her utmost best to bite hard on her lip and widen her eyes, trying with incredible difficultly not to scrunch her face up in laughter.
She could imagine him, thin lanky frame stood out against the wetness of his shirt, floppy greasy hair awkwardly brushed back because it had little substance to it because it was wet. He ignored her mocking look and swallowed, as if preparing for an attack. She turned her attention to the books on her left, and trailed her index finger over the hard spines, some hardbound in cloth, some with printed plastic.
"Oh, what a shame. Must have been quite a saturated experience." She saw his jaw visibly tighten, but still gazed down at her offensively. He barked out a cold laugh. He was casting a shadow over her. He loomed over her, seemingly at close proximity, yet as she quickly glanced down, he was at least half a metre away from her. His pale long hands were by his sides uselessly, and a couple of calloused fingers were tapping against his trouser leg, rather impatiently. It appeared as if he was about to lift them up and use them violently, at any minute. Then he inched a step forward. She tried not to lean back, as her gut instinct told her to do. He sighed heavily through his nostrils, mouth tightly closed.
"You know, Gilmartin, I'm beginning to tire of his." She rolled her eyes to her left again, spotting a relevant looking book and pulled it out by the top of its spine. It was a relatively new book, and as she flicked the pages, the smell of brand new paper wafted into her nose beautifully. She flicked over every page, trying to infuriate him. His glacier impersonal stare bore into her; it felt trying to make eye contact with him was like trying to stare directly into sunlight.
"Oh really?" she began conversationally, and then snapped the book shut and didn't put it back on the shelf properly. She felt she was past being civil now with him. Being friendly was a tactic that had not worked at all. She wondered what a good tactic was. Her heart began to beat a little faster and there was an odd prickling at the base of her spine.
"Why don't you stop bullying and threatening me. Scarecrow." Trying to ignore her slightly trembling body, she breathed out heavily and turned back around. Luckily there was a gap between the ending bookshelf and the wall, and she could squeeze through. The lights above them were beginning to flicker ominously. Before she could put one foot in front of the other, she felt the familiar forceful contact of his strong hand upon her shoulder.
She didn't even have time to think and react to it; not even time to panic. He wrenched her around so hard her shoulder cracked in its socket. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly in instinctive defence as he twisted her around and slammed her into the bookcase behind her. All the wind was forced out of her, and she was unable to open her eyes for a moment. He didn't stop to contemplate her…he licked his lips, fear, or physical pain. The back of her head had caught on the metal casing of the bookshelf and sent a quiver of pain throughout her skull. She felt like a bit of her skull had been bashed in and her face had realigned itself.
"What did you just call me?" She opened her eyes after a few moments, unable to believe this was happening again. This time, it was much worse. Her heart beat like that of an African drum, quick and booming, and she was sure he could feel the pulse angrily thumping through her bloodstream. He still kept his hand on one shoulder, the other by his side. After he had hit her the first time, for a time afterwards she thought she might have dreamt it, once the bruising had healed up. But it had not been a dream, not even an allusion of nightmares. His sudden, abrupt violence had the terror from that night come rushing back to her. She didn't respond to him, now gazing at his eyes directly, swallowing what felt a large rock at the back of her throat. He was shaking himself; she could feel the tremors coming from the hand that crushed her shoulder beneath his tightening grip.
"How about feeling a bit of fear for once, Gracie? Do you like to feel fear?" he hissed at her, but the smirk was there on his face, set like stone. His eyes lit up like a passionate fire was burning behind them. She kept her eyes wide and her mouth straight. Where were the CCTV cameras and all the other students and librarians when you needed them? It was quiet like the silence amidst a crowd about to witness an execution. He had gritted his teeth, emphasising the letter 'f' when he spoke the word fear. He had hissed like a snake, and slowly squeezed her shoulder further. She raised her eyebrows, pushing the tongue against the roof of her mouth, trying to ignore the bone-crushing pain of his hand upon her shoulder. She tried to pull a smile and spoke in a casual manner, trying not to give him his ultimate satisfaction.
"Do you want me to feel fear, Crane? Does the control it gives you make you feel superior? Unique?" His eyes glazed over with a certain kind of lunacy, and his breathing started to pace a little more with the beating pulse in his temple. His stringy hair fell into his penetrating stare. His face was far too close for comfort, she realised; she could smell his metallic breath, his body odour from the day, and the failing deodorant that had worked it's magic already.
"Don't," he barely managed to utter. He was losing it, she surmised. If she yelled for help, would some lazy student hear her? Probably not. They were all out drinking or sleeping at their desks upstairs. Or watching telly at home.
"You…are walking on very thin ice," he finished his sentence, uttering every last syllable with a determined contempt. She felt herself shudder, not helping herself, and he flickered his eyes when he felt the tremor vibrate through his finger. She had a surprisingly bony shoulder; he had to note that she was not the thinnest of women he had seen. Even so he was glad she had a bare shoulder, his fingers began to press the skin together painfully and his thumb began to dig under the joint so that whenever she moved she tensed further.
"Why are you being so malicious? Please, get off me." He didn't take heed of a word she said, pleased that she was starting to beg. He smiled at her hauntingly, rubbing his thumb particularly roughly over her shoulder joint, which made her forehead crinkle in pain. She was biting the inside of her cheek, very, very hard.
"Do you know what scares you? You failed to ask me last time. Is it me, Gilmartin? Or is it the constant fear of succumbing to your desires again? Your everlasting need for drugs? Would you like to try mine?" He pushed his thumb further down into the skin, but she tried to hold against the pain, scowling at him deeply, ignoring his predictable, scathing remarks.
"What? Let go of me, right now. Otherwise I will scream and alert the staff." He stuck his jaw out, seemingly pleased with her response, and in defence as he leaned closer towards her face, she stuck a hand out and pushed against his lean chest. She tried not to shudder touching him, the soft material of his suit was strangely comforting, reminding her of his undeniable humanity, despite his antagonistic behaviour.
"Oh I welcome it," he spat, and some of the spray from his words landed on her cheek. It was now that Grace Gilmartin began to panic; a trapped fly in a spider's web. She slammed both her hands against his chest and hauled her body weight forward into order to throw him off, hissing at him again to let her go. He began to laugh, a deep laugh that reverberated throughout his body. His grip on her shoulder, the torturous rubbing over her shoulder joint was turning her vision blue with pain.
"Let me go NOW, CRANE!" she half shouted, a pathetic attempt to scream, but she found she didn't want to give him what he wanted. She nearly toppled him back into the large shelf behind him, but his other hand flew to her open neck and grabbed it roughly. He pushed her back into the bookshelf, completely winding her. She yelped in shock and pain, loosing her footing, her converses squeaking on the tiled floor. He put a leg between hers so she didn't fall, increasing her panic and discomfiture all the more so.
"You just don't stop, do you?" he seethed, angry that she nearly had him over. "Your games never fail to entertain me."
"If this is about the water balloon then I'm really fucking sorry." It was surprising she had managed to speak out against the throbbing she now felt in her head and the torturous agony with his continued motions on her shoulder. She had to thank her lucky stars he wasn't strangling her. Strangely, he just kept his icy fingers on her neck, as if to warn her. If he had been anyone else, it would be temptingly sensual. Unfortunately, it was Jonathan Crane and it wasn't. There was the threat of having her windpipe crushed. He narrowed his eyes at her remark. His glasses were slightly askew as a result of their fight. He let his eyes trail over her, almost seductively, his fourth smallest finger rub ever so slightly against the tender skin of her neck. She continued to stare at him angrily; fuming that he was so violent, fuming at his arrogance, fuming that she hadn't moved away from him yet. He was gazing intently at her neck, head tilted as if he was analysing a test result in the lab. He seems to be enamoured with this pain and fear I feel, she thought in disgust, his icy hands on her throat and bare shoulder. In that moment; she realised how tall and lanky he was; he really was a scarecrow.
Perhaps that was why he didn't appreciate the comment, a small knowing voice spoke at the back of her head. Whatever was left of his short bitten nails began to dick into her neck and the look in his eyes were animalistic, the pupils dilated. His concentrated stare of abhorrence continued to bore into her, like a thousand knives piercing. If he pressed any harder, she was likely to become part of the bookshelf, she thought amusedly, unbelieving of her own dry wit. Soon believing she no longer wanted to be his victim, lifted her right hand from his forearm and palmed his nose. She heard it click, and watched him stumble backwards, masking his pain by covering his face in shock. Before she could act once again, he took her by the upper arms and threw her back against the metal casing. She hissed with pain, and nearly slid to the floor. He continued to hold her up, digging his fingers into her arms. There was a bit of blood at the base of his nostrils, and he breathed heavily.
"So insolent…I need you to do something for me. I will not accept no as an answer." Grace did not say anything. Black spots danced around in her vision from the ache at the base of her skull. She had hit her head far too many times in the past month.
"The archive, where you work." Grace tried not to depict surprise. She had no idea how he knew; she had only been working there for a couple of days. A raw feeling of fear crawled up from the base of her spine and worked its way back into her gut.
"What about it?" she asked indifferently.
"I need you to get me in, after your shift finishes."
"Why?" she queried straight away, snapping at him. What could he possibly want from an archive? What was this, some sort of thriller? Perhaps he needed that in his life. His eyes seemed to be glowing with an unspoken ferocity, like he had kept the raging urges underneath his clear frames, pressed suit and plain unadorned tie. He pressed down on her a little as he hissed at her again.
"Why should I explain myself to you? You let me in, and let me get what I want." He spoke as if she was a child, as if she had trouble understanding English and her frown deepened, almost to the point her face screwed up.
"Why the hell should I help you?" she barked at him, trying to shove him away. "Letting you 'get what you want' will always be a bad thing, I'm guessing. If you do anything more then I'm moving out." She had said it very venomously, although her words had been very blasé. She had never spoken to anyone quite like him before, and had never used such a harsh tone. He saw straight through her however, and fixed her with a most contemptible, vile stare. She watched him warily, waiting for a bucket load of insults to hit her like a gale. Instead his face fell, as if someone had wiped him of all emotion, like washing down a messy slate. He was deadly silent for a few moments before moving very fast, in the blink of an eye. His long fingered hand gripped her jaw, so tightly he compressed her skin together, pulled her head forward roughly and slammed it against the metal casing of the shelf behind her.
It was agonising, more so than his violence before. Black spots again briefly danced in her eyes as the agonising pain exploded through her skull. She let a gasp of anguish escape her mouth, hands shooting up towards the location of pain, but he quickly slid his hands down her arm and forced her from doing so. Tears stung at her eyes and blobbed out, rolling slowly down her cheeks. The warm tears soaked the tips of his fingers, as he dug his fingers into the bone of her jaw. Her head began to pound as his silence continued, and she began to whimper in distress.
"Jonath-…ugh, my head…"
"Because, that's why," he finally answered his voice calm and oddly conversational. "Don't you dare think about moving away. You have a shift tonight?" She nodded, trying not to let out a strangled sob or bark of fury. He smiled, very slowly, but it wasn't genuine.
"That's my girl. Now don't cry." He slowly moved his hand away, and left it mercifully, hanging at his side. His eyes flicked down to study her jaw, red and sore from his advances.
"Might want to get some A&D on that." Her expression of pain changed rather quickly to one of confusion. He rolled his eyes exasperatedly.
"Emollient?" That was the last straw, she pulled away as hard as she could, reached for her bag on the floor, not bothering with the pile of books she had laid out. She carried herself off as fast as she could, face red, breath heaving. Feeling his presence behind her, in paranoia she began to leg it up the corridor and towards the large centre spiral stairs that led to all floors. Hearing him cackle suddenly with laughter made her take two steps at a time. It was an hour or so before her shift. She fiddled on her phone for a while, breathing in the night air, and began to call Lisa. She wanted to call her Mother. But she would leave it for now. Her heart was still beating fast as she got to Lisa's house.