Torment
She was insane. Clearly. Absolutely off her nut. What the fuck was she thinking?
Bella tapped her pen on her notepad, burning holes into the English essay she had been failing to write for the past 30 minutes. The quiet of the library surrounded her; she listened with an impatient air to the gentle ticking of the clock on the wall, the rasp of paper against the wood of tables, the quiet hushes of breath of other studying teenagers.
She clenched her fist, watching her knuckles whiten around her pen.
She decided that memories had no purpose. They only distracted.
The smell of his sweat, smeared across her collarbone.
The way his hair glimmered gold and red in the gold light of the practise room.
The brand of his hand on her lower back.
The heat of him. Around her, outside of her, in her.
She snarled underneath her breath and dropped the pen with a clatter, causing several nervous 5th formers to stare at her.
That was yesterday now. She hadn't slept a wink. She now knew that everything she had read about love was completely false.
It wasn't gentle or easy. There are no butterflies or gentle heat in the stomach.
It bowled you over and held you down, making it impossible to think, to breathe. It was like a disease. Clawed underneath your skin and settled there, infecting every organ, every cell until the entire body is consumed with scolding fire.
It exhilarated and terrified her at the same time.
Someone sat down next to her and carefully started unstacking his books, setting them out neatly next to her chaos of papers and pens. He cleared his throat and said lightly, "Hello."
The fire peaked and Bella glanced up through her lashes to see him. He smiled slow and wicked, peering over her shoulder. "Duchess of Malfi," he hissed through his teeth, "I am not envious."
She did not speak, partly because she knew she would embarrass herself. Face pink, she nodded, gently picking up the pen again and started to write again while breaking eye contact. He sighed and opened his own books.
They were quiet for a while. The silence weighed heavy on her and her temperature soared, her heart beating a tattoo against her ribs. He was so close to her, she could smell his cologne, his sweat.
How was she supposed to concentrate on divine providence in Duchess of Malfi when he was sitting next to her? So close and yet so far. If she was to move her left hand a little to the left, her pinkie could brush one of his knuckles, his hand relaxed on the table as it were. Some perilously reckless part of her urged her to do it, to push across the wood of the table and take his hand in full sight of everyone: of the annoying librarian, the stupid fifteen year olds and the smelly boys who game on the computers. Fear gripped her in that moment though.
She knew what people would say. That she was doing favours. That he was paying her money. That it was all lies, all a trick. What was the phrase? Wham bam, thank you ma'am.
God help her.