I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling fan, rotating lazily above me until the grogginess of sleep drifted from my bones. I was aware of the sticky, humid heat that hung around me, just like every day; the fan providing little relief from the stale air. The ceiling was an off-white colour and I had practically memorised each water stain and crack in the paintwork by heart.

It was like Groundhog Day here – every single day just as mundane and tedious as the next. Who'd have thought it? I scratched my chest and felt the lumpy scars that marred my skin. They always itched whenever I thought too much about it. With a sigh, I heaved myself up and swung my legs around, placing my feet on the floor. I was getting pretty fucking sick of this heat.

I padded over to the tiny bathroom and flicked on the shower. I left it to run cold for a while before stripping and launching myself under the cool faucet. It felt like summer had finally let me out of its chokehold and my body shivered in appreciation. I had not yet understood why it was so hot here and I wasn't sure I ever would.

After the usual morning routine, I sat at the dining-table-for-one in my dingy open-plan apartment and chewed the skin on my bottom lip. I was always doing that; it was a terrible habit. Things got kind of lonely here. I had ventured to the bar a couple of times – they never bothered asking for ID because, let's face it, what was the worst that could happen? – but the people around here were just like the air – stale, dirty and irritating. I longed for some company.

When it felt like I was being gassed by the stagnant air of my own apartment, I decided it was time to venture outside. There really wasn't much to see around here; the ground was mainly dusty because of the lack of rain, or any weather besides stifling heat. I lived in a small apartment block which was only three floors high and I hadn't met any of the other people who lived there. I guessed either they had become recluses or perhaps nobody actually occupied the other rooms. I didn't blame them because the whole building sucked.

I walked down the block, sweat sticking my hair to my forehead, peering into shop windows for something to do or someone to talk to. I had lost track of how long I'd been here, in this place, but it felt like an eternity. It depressed me more to think about the rest of that eternity that I'd have to spend here. I dragged my feet, leaving tracks behind me, until I finally stopped outside the library. I always ended up here.

I pushed the door and slipped inside, closing it behind me. I was grateful for the coolness that spread over me as a result of the stone walls, floors and ceiling. Whoever built this place had the right idea. I continued forward, each footstep creating a short echo that bounced off the uneven walls. The librarian was in her usual place behind the counter, drawing patterns on her arm with a fine-liner pen. Every time I had visited the library she was creating works of art upon her skin. She was a wonderful artist and I had asked her if she was an artist before she came here. She said no, but that she would have liked to have been. Talking about the past seemed to make her sad, so I made a mental note not to talk about it again. Her name was Odessa and she had the brightest red hair you had ever seen. It was wild and curly and she had mistakenly cut it short, to her shoulders, so it tumbled outwards in a sort of lion's mane. She was pale and a few freckles were sprinkled across the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were bright green and inquisitive but she always looked like half of her was somewhere else. I liked talking to Odessa, but she wasn't very talkative and getting a conversation out of her proved tiring at the best of times.

I offered a small wave as I walked by her desk and she met my eyes, a small smile gracing her lips. She then returned to the intricate drawing she was sketching up her forearm. I wound between bookshelves like a slalom course and stopped at the poetry section. I knew most of these books by heart, cover to cover, but depressing poetry was my masochistic getaway from this place. Grabbing a book at random, I walked casually across to my usual spot – a beaten, red armchair with stuffing protruding from the holes in the cushion – only to find it already occupied.

There was a young girl, I guessed around sixteen years old, hunched up in my seat with her head resting on her knees. She looked up as she heard me approaching and it looked as though she had been crying, but I couldn't be sure. Her skin was pale, almost translucent and her eyes were deep and dark. Her dirty blonde hair fell into her face and her lips were full and pink. She looked so fragile but the hard look in her eyes suggested otherwise. She stared at me until I sat down in the chair a few feet from her. "Are you okay?" I spoke in a hushed tone, internally rolling my eyes at my lame question. Her eyes left mine and scanned the cover of the book I had picked up. She didn't relax but her posture changed; she almost seemed curious.
"Poetry?" She spoke and her voice was full of authority and depth. I smirked at my misjudgement of this girl. She was anything but fragile. I gave a small nod in response to her question.
"The winds were withered in the stagnant air, and the clouds perished! Darkness had no need-" I began to quote, somewhat dramatically until she cut me off.
"Of aid from them – she was the universe!" She finished. I raised my eyebrows and I saw the hint of a smirk on her own face. "Was quoting Byron supposed to impress me?"
I smiled and shook my head. "Why are you here?" I asked bluntly.
She frowned and replied sarcastically. "The library is a public place, asshole. I have as much right to be here as you." She brought her legs down from in front of her and crossed one over the other, folding her arms across her chest. She wore a mustard yellow cardigan over her shirt-and-floral-dress ensemble. It was horribly matched but she wore it with such confidence that I could have believed it was a high end fashion trend. I also wondered how she wasn't melting with that many layers on.
"I didn't mean the library," I clarified. "I meant why are you here, in this place?" Her face changed from moody teenager to a strange vulnerable expression.
"I don't know," she admitted. "I just woke up and I was here. I've never been here in my life." She looked me in the eyes again and I was taken aback at how drawn to her I was. "Where exactly is 'here'?"
I shrugged. "Who knows. It's just where we end up afterwards."
Her brows knitted together. "I don't understand what you're saying. After what?"
I swallowed the thickness in my throat. I didn't want to have to explain this to her. How do you tell a girl you just met that you're both dead? "I don't really know how to say it without sounding like a dick..." I slumped back in my seat and prayed to whoever was out there that I wouldn't have to say it to her. She was obviously one of those 'accidental' cases.
She rolled her eyes so dramatically I almost laughed. "Just get on with it," she spat. "I'm not scared of anything." She sounded so defiant that I half believed her.
"You're dead," I said plainly. Her expression didn't change. "This place... I don't know where we are. All I know is, this is where you go when you off yourself."
"You mean... Suicide?" She sat forward in her chair and I saw understanding flash across her face.
"Afraid so," I tried to sound casual, as if it was all a big practical joke. "Kind of ironic, isn't it? We kill ourselves to escape the piss and the shit and the vomit that is life and then we end up in this dump. Joke's on us, I guess." She looked at me and surprised me by smirking. This girl really wasn't fazed by anything, was she?

She perched on the edge of the armchair and rested her arms on her knees, looking directly at me with that hot-as-hell smirk plastered on her face. She really was beautiful. Tilting her head slightly to one side, she spoke to me again and I committed her voice to memory. "So, how'd you do it then?"

I am still continuing with Freak Like Me, but this idea struck me and it was screaming to be written or else I'd forget. I have higher hopes for this idea. I hope you enjoy it!