Draw Me In

–|*|–

Eleven – What You Wanted

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*~ And in the night, you hear me calling,
You hear me calling ~*

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That night, and in all the nights that follow, my mind turns over my friends words almost obsessively.

In the daytime, it's fine. I have the privilege of being surrounded by so many books, so it's almost easy to ignore the daunting thoughts and his three words. I focus on stock, on income and outcome, on serving customers, and, in the quiet moments that fall, on the pages themselves.

But in the night . . . it's not so easy. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that the word easy may as well delete itself from my vocabulary in the night time hours.

A soon as I shut my eyes, the evening replays in my head – from start to finish like a bitter (because anything that deducts from my sleeping hours can only be defined in such a way) symphony.

We go inside, we get crushed, the lights turn low and then they're all lit up.

They're quick and fast, and he's rough and raw, and then they're gone and he's just raw.

Slow down; I think he sees me, maybe not – probably not.

Backstage and monopoly, then I drop my mobile and he asks me to stay.

Then he's close and I fall asleep, and then he's even closer.

A burning in my pocket – I see you.

And in said non-dreams, I send four words back:

I wish you wouldn't.

–|*|–

I don't notice the week that passes. Or at least, I pretend not to. I'm an ace pretender.

I've taken to staying at the shop later than usual, arranging and rearranging my books. I do them alphabetically – first by author, then by book title – then I scrap that and sort them by genre, deciding that in the grand scheme of things, it's more important to group them by horror or romance and so on than by anything else.

The sorts of things that wander through my head are – what if they only wrote one good book? What if they only wrote one book? What if the customer has a specific "mood" they want to cater for and they bloody well can't because names and titles are pretty ambiguous?

And so forth . . .

When I return home, Alice and Rose are always there, and they always seem armed with a specific kind of "look." And I somehow know what it means without wanting to know what it means.

"Stop that," I snapped on Tuesday. "You're not going to break into my mind through the power of your stare."

Alice had only smirked. "I don't need to." Then, mimicking my sarcasm had said in a deadpan, "It's written all over your face."

And, again, so forth . . .

It wasn't just that, though. There were accidental things – like sitting on the bus next to someone with their music blaring from their headphones, blokes playing acoustics on the street, even the colour of the bloody autumn leaves reminded me of his, in Rose's terms "piss poor hair."

(It was just easier to put a negative twist on things).

In short, I was going a little bit mad.

I knew this because despite all of the aforementioned, I still kept his card under my pillow.

–|*|–

Sunday morning brings with it the loud – obnoxious, in my opinion – sound of the hoover. I grunt as I roll over in bed, throwing my pillow over my face and groaning.

What is wrong with these people? Don't they understand the concept of a weekend?

By which I mean, you do as little as possible.

I wait a painful five minutes, letting out a sigh when the noise stops. I'm just on the edge of falling under again when the radio starts up, blaring one of Alice's obsessions over the speakers – Bublé.

"Damn you Michael," I whisper-muffle. "If I had a little black book, you'd be bloody well in it."

I press the pillow over my face one more time before throwing it off of me. The little white card hidden under it flutters in response, landing – where else – on my face.

I see you, it greets.

I glare at it, cross-eyed. "Oh, sod off."

–|*|–

The first thing I say when I walk into the kitchen is – "What are you doing." Not even a question, because I'm too tired to raise my intonation.

Alice swings around at my voice, dancing – yes, dancing – across the kitchen to me. "Morning, Bella!" she chirps, and I think she could probably muster enthusiasm for the apocalypse. "How'd you sleep?"

Because everything in this room is too loud, I lean over and spin the little knob on the radio until the volume is much, much lower. "I was enjoying it," I deadpan, then peer around the kitchen at the bucket and mop, the bleach on the counter, and other such cleaning stuff scattered around. "And then this happened."

She rolls her eyes at me, giving me a quick hug before darting over to the counter. "I'm spring cleaning."

I give her a blank stare. "It's autumn."

She gives a little shrug, ringing a cloth out over the skin. "Can never start too early."

I start slowly backing out of the kitchen. "In all aspects, I can safely say you have."

"You're not gonna help?"

"It's Sunday," I say in exasperation, as if that should be sufficient on its own, because, well, it really ought to be. "Why are you even doing this?"

She pauses in her wiping, glancing at me over her shoulder and giving me a sheepish look. "My mum's coming round."

I withhold a groan at that little titbit. "And where has Rose disappeared to?" Because there's no way she's slept through this. She's the lightest sleeper on the planet, as in, breathe-too-loudly-and-feel-my-mardy-wrath.

"She went to town."

"Of course she did," I mutter under my breath. "Well," I say, sighing like I'm really put out. "I've got some, uh, book keeping to do today, so . . ."

"But it's Sunday." Throwing my argument back in my face.

"Yeah, well . . ." I trail off, turning the volume on the radio back up right before I scarper. "Can never start too early!"

And then I disappear.

–|*|–

On the walk to my book shop – wrapped up in about three layers as well as a parka and sweltering because I always walk too fast and it is incredibly mild for October – I feel a little guilt at abandoning Alice.

I mean, I know she's her mum and all, but she can be scary.

Not in a Rose, breathing-fire kind of way – on the complete opposite end of the spectrum, actually.

She's intimidating because she's icy – reserved but cold and calculating with it. Everything about her makes me feel about two inches tall.

She's a bit, okay, a lot, of a toff.

The difference between her and Alice never ceases to confound me.

Once I'm in, I immediately shrug my coat off and hang it on a little hook in the back room. I turn on the heating and flick the kettle on, flopping into the chair and resting my head on the table as I wait.

–|*|–

After filling up a whole new section dedicated to overwhelmingly underappreciated (but good) books, I meaner on over to the door and flip the sign from closed to open. I don't expect any customers – it's Sunday – but you never know.

That done, I settle into the comfy chair behind my desk and the snag my book off the side. The silence of the shop makes me sigh, and I get lost for some hours in the words on the pages.

Dracula, thankfully, has no relation to my reality right now.

–|*|–

Turns out I was wrong.

(Not about the Dracula thing).

People do venture outdoors on Sundays.

I count around ten people that trickle in – though there's usually only one person present at any time, and only a few actually buy books. (One, much to my delight, selecting a novel from my "underappreciated" section). But they seem different than they do in the weekdays – lazily browsing more than anything else.

My tenth (and as it turns out) my last customer is an elderly lady with one of those little trolleys. She comes in at around 7PM, giving me a smile before disappearing behind the shelves.

By this point, the words in front of me are blurring and I'm yawning all over the place. Placing the book down, I pick up my mobile and check my inbox out of habit.

I have: 0 new messages.

No – wait, that's not true. I have one from Pizza Hut giving me a 50% off voucher. That's for: today only!

"No, ta," I mutter-grumble, rubbing my tired eyes.

I play pac-man for a while, relying on the glow from the screen to keep me awake until my not-yet-customer-but-browser leaves and I can lock up and go home. I'm hoping that Alice's mum has buggered off by now. I wouldn't think this was the kind of area she'd feel "safe in" at night, at least, that's what she's always telling Alice.

I return to the home screen after a while, touching the screen until numbers appear. I start pressing them mindlessly, chin in hand, and before I know it I've typed in exactly eleven digits and saved them under TS.

I.e. – the singer.

I stare at my hand for a minute in shock, as if both it and the phone are objects so alien I can't fathom what they are.

I snap my head up and look around me for a minute, suddenly paranoid.

What.

Am.

I.

Doing?

I meet my shadowed reflection in the shop window, but it's just as wide-eyed.

Glancing back down at the phone, my back suddenly stiff as a board, my thumb moves on its own accord and starts to text, filling the blank space the way I always do in my non-dreams.

I wish you wouldn't.

I sit there for a while and stare at the letters, feeling an unexpected burst of relief swell inside me. It's probably daft, but seeing the words physically there makes me feel as though I've responded even though I haven't. It's like . . . like I'm getting to refute his words (sort of) without any repercussions or judgement.

It doesn't matter that it's not real. I've said – typed – it . . . and it makes me feel better.

"Excuse me."

Startled by the sudden voice, my thumb smudges across my screen as I glance up, almost dropping it entirely. Quickly, I deposit the mobile on the desk and smile at the elderly lady.

"How can I help?"

After finding the book she was after out for her, I wish her a goodnight and start turning everything off. My phone lies abandoned on the side, forgotten, as I switch of the aisle lights and heating, unplug the kettle and finally spin the sign back around until it's bidding a firm closed to all.

At the last minute, I stuff my phone into my pocket before pulling my coat tight around me. The night air is much fresher than it was in the day, and the semi-warming sun has been replaced by a cold moon, spilling its white inky light over the pavement.

Cars pass me at regular intervals as I walk along the main road, golden leaves crunching underfoot. But I'm used to this kind of noise, and even the rain can't dampen the quiet smile on my face, hidden carefully behind my coat.

–|*|–

"And where have you been?" Is how I'm greeted when I step into the flat.

"Work," I say simply, shrugging off my coat.

Rose's eyes hit her hairline. "Alice said that. I just had to hear it for myself."

I roll my eyes as I walk into the living room, plonking down onto the sofa next to Rose. I try to nick a crisp out of her giant bag of Doritos but she slaps my hand away.

"Did you see Alice's mum?"

Rose groans, swiping a hand across her face. "Do not talk to me about that woman."

I snort – can't help it.

"Oh, Rose," she says, mimicking her high-pitched tone. "How lovely to see you. Are you still working at that garage? How very working class of you."

I laugh, loudly. "She did not say that."

Rose huffs around a mouth full of crisps. "Practically."

I give her shoulder a little pat. "For what it's worth, I love your working class self."

She smiles and nudges me, and after a minute of silence says – "You're still not getting any of my crisps."

–|*|–

A little while later, after discarding my top and exchanging it for a much larger, much more comfortable one, I'm about to take off my jeans to replace them with the softest, fluffiest pyjama bottoms Primark can offer, when my pocket starts vibrating.

A giggle spills from my lips at the intense tickle, and I quickly pull the offending object out of my clingy denim pocket.

But when I swipe my finger across the darkened screen, my smile fades.

I have: 1 new message.

From: TS.

My breath rattles out of me, and my body gives out, falling to the floor with a thud.

There are now words under my: I wish you wouldn't.

For a minute I just let my eyes focus on my own – let the others fade into an indistinct blur. My heart is suddenly the loudest thing in the room, and I have the urge to bury my phone under my pillow, with his card.

But I don't, and my eyes dart down before I can think better of it.

I can't stop, it reads. You're everywhere.

–|*|–

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A/N: *hides*

hoover = vacuum

autumn = fall

toff = a rich or upper-class person (usually used in a derogatory way)

ta = thank you

crisps = chips

Sorry for the wait! Uni is kicking my arse. :(

Thanks for reading. :) See you soon!