Hell's Angel: Section Two

I had felt her eyes on me all the way up the stairs. For once, the stare was nothing but bland curiosity, and without thinking, I stopped at the seat directly behind her. I realized my mistake too late – I had already stopped, and paused too long.

Doubtless my move was being pondered by the girl, but I didn’t care what she thought. Most likely the same thoughts most people had in regards to me, students and adults alike. Goth, loner…rebel, because of the black. I didn’t care about the assumptions, the majority of which were true, and the rest that weren’t tended to keep others away.

The lecture, I had discovered, was debating the topic of evolution, or rather, attacking creationism. That much was clear, from the start. I took several notes, but the information presented I had all heard before.

Then the girl in front of me turned around in her seat. “Hi,” she said almost excitedly. I cringed. “Um…Aidyn, right? Uh, hi…”

“What?”

The girl looked taken aback. “Uh, sorry,” she said slowly. “Uh, I…”

I narrowed my eyes slightly, and she froze accordingly, her own eyes widening, locked in my gaze. I smirked mentally and used the time to study the unusual colour of her eyes. Any first glance would have found them pale blue, but I had plenty of time to see the warm violet tinge that radiated from the iris. Maybe if I frightened the girl enough, she would not end up to be one of those who grew enamoured or intrigued and would contrive to follow me everywhere. Those were rare – but exceedingly annoying. I kept my gaze on hers. Her eyes looked dazed, lost – they always did. I’d found out about my ability, if it could be called that, some time ago, when someone tried to steal something from me. It didn’t go so well for them.

Eyes were a…hobby of mine. Not like I spent the days eyeing the people’s eyes…but occasionally. I’d glance around and see if it was really true that the eyes were the windows to the soul. I didn’t believe they were. Mine weren’t…because I had no soul.

Something the lecturer said proved to be amusing enough to set some of the audience laughing, which broke my power over the girl. Bright red instantly stained her cheeks as her eyes darted to the floor.

The tremble in her voice was evident when she spoke. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly, dropping her gaze. “I – I didn’t mean to – t-to stare. I was just – I just wanted to know if you had a pen I could borrow…” She trailed off.

I frowned, loathe to lend her anything. What did I care about her plight? And I was fond of my pens. I knew, too often, that borrowed items never made it back to their owner. At the same time, I didn’t want to lie. Wordlessly, I reached into my bag and retrieved a pen, handing it to her without taking my eyes from her face. Still red, the girl muttered a thank you and turned back around.

The lecture held no interest; anyhow, was mankind really so horribly dense? I could not fathom how anyone could believe that the world came about by macroevolution and man from a micro-organism. Fools.

I brought out my latest sketch and was quickly lost to the world around me, a mistake on my part. Some long while later, I heard an intake of breath and looked to see that girl, kneeling on her seat, studying – my – picture.

“What are you doing?!” I snarled, fingers quickly splaying to cover the sketchbook.

She stared at me with terrified eyes. “I – I’m really sorry,” she whispered, pale. “I just wanted to look. I shouldn’t have; sorry.” With that, she turned around, and left me alone for the rest of the lecture.

Sometime later in the day, I found the art room for my last class, and paused in the doorway to assess its contents and occupants, as I usually did. I quickly skimmed the rows of desks, grimacing with distaste when I saw they were in pairs. There were two empty seats left, one beside a boy with a sports jacket, who patted the chair beside him with a condescending smirk on his face. The other empty seat was beside the girl from before. I glanced again at the jock, then opted for the girl. It wasn’t that I couldn’t take him, but I had wanted this class to be relaxing, and it wouldn’t be, not if I sat there.

Reluctantly, I stepped into the room, then made my way to the empty desk beside the girl and sat without looking at here. She had had her head down, close to her paper, and she didn’t see me until I was already sitting.

Thankfully, she said and did nothing, except turn a little pale. Wearily, I set my pencil to a bank page in my sketchbook and let it guide my hand, letting my mind rest.

The disadvantage of being able to function or work on automatic was he loss of the sense of time. When the teacher slid my work out from under my hand to get a better look, it might have been ten minutes; it might have been all of an hour. I couldn’t find a clock in the room.

“Exceptional work,” the teacher said in such a monotone that I doubted he really cared. Having dutifully said his piece, he trudged back to his desk.

The girl giggled softly from behind a curtain of black hair. “Mr. Kiper is like that. A lot of the kids in here just want a slack class.” Then, “Can I see your picture? Oh! I still have your pen.”

I frowned at her hopeful eyes. “No. And may I have my pen back now, please, thank you.” I watched with dismay when her expression went from disappointment to mischief.

“Let me see and I’ll give you your pen,” she beamed.

I clenched my jaw. “Give me my pen, please,” I forced out between gritted teeth.

“Pleeeaasseee?”

People were starting to wake up and look. I swallowed a furious retort and held out the sketchbook, and my other hand. She dropped the pen into my palm and took the book.

She gasped softly a second later, eyes wide as she regarded my sketch almost reverently. I grimaced at my pen and curled my fingers around it to make sure they wouldn’t be seen itching to reach out and snatch the sketchbook back.

Violet eyes turned in my direction; I refused to look up. “Why were you so sad? What was happening?”

My eyes snapped to her face. “What?”

She pointed at the paper. “This is you, isn’t it? Oh…those are wings…”

I scowled and took back the sketchbook. “That’s enough,” I grumbled, and flipped to a new page. I didn’t look at that sketch again until I was sure the girl wasn’t looking; I sat back in my chair uneasily when I did. In the sketch, a young boy on hands and knees peered up out from behind his hair, tears running down his face. Dark wings could just be seen in the shadows behind him, and scars crisscrossed what could be seen of his arms and upper torso through the rags he wore. I suppressed a slight shudder.

That boy in the picture did look like me.