Page 19 of Shadowed With Fear

My headphones are on, music playing softly in my ears, when there’s a tap on my shoulder. I’m not going to sit here and act like I was some badass and that it completely unphased me, because I almost shit myself. A startled scream rips from my throat as I rip off my headphones and whip around with my textbook in hand ready to beat the shit out of whoever touched me, when I see who it is. I don’t drop the textbook, though my fear is replaced with annoyance.

“What do you want, Issac? I’m not going to do some middle-man carrier pigeon shit. If you want to talk to Liz, grow a sack and do it yourself.” I turn back to my homework, grabbing my headphones that are now on the ground. Irritation creeps up my spine, and funnily enough, so does that icy cold chill. My hackles raise. Peering over my shoulder I look around, avoiding Issac standing there silently, but I don’t see anyone.

“Don’t be like that, D. I’ve tried. You know how she is. She won’t even read my emails. Emails!” Issac says dramatically throwing his arms up, gripping his hair.

“I don’t know what to do. It was all a complete misunderstanding, and I know it is because you think I cheated on her, and I can assure that never happened.”

My arms crossed as I sat back staring him down unamused. “What makes you think I can change her mind?”

He sighs. “Just, can you give her this letter. I don’t know like drop it in her backpack or slide it under her door. Something. I’ve tried in our classes together, but she literally didn’t even sit in those classes for ten minutes. As soon as she seen me, she booked it out the door.” A pained expression crosses his face. I have to admit, he does kind of look like shit. Pale, gaunt, and overall sluggish compared to his normally up-kept self. His dirty blond hair is a mess when it’s usually styled back, dark circles line his brown eyes, and he’s wearing sweatpants. Completely unheard of in Issac’s world. I huff ripping the letter out of his hand, studying it intently.

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much. I was so worried you would avoid me too, but when you stayed in photography the other day it gave me some hope.”

“Photography? You’re in that class?”

“Yeah. Remember last year when we signed up for classes?” He looks at me quizzically. I think hard about our pre-orientation session and can’t remember anything.

“No. No I don’t.”

“Remember, Liz’s advisor told her she should take her art later because she needed that extra math class. So, when we chose our required art, I signed up with you?”

Nothing. Not a damn clue what he’s talking about, but I smile and nod.

“Yeah. Yeah sorry. It slipped my mind. I guess I just assumed you guys had taken all your classes together.”

“It’s cool. I’ll see you later in class, alright. Maybe we can grab seats together?”

Not a chance in hell.

“Sure. Good luck!” I wave the letter at him as he trots off with a little pep in his step.

Poor Liz.

The letter sits on the table for the rest of the morning, watching me work on assignments, and contemplating whether I would be a good friend or a terrible friend if I just burned the damn thing. Every now and then my mind would wonder to the events at the fest, and the strange man in a ski mask. Then that cold feeling would travel up my spine and settle at the base of my neck, weighing my body and my mind. I want to know what that feeling means. Who’s there? What do they want? Why hasn’t it left me since Halloween?

Was it just PTSD? Probably, but that doesn’t change the fact I want to know. I want to be myself again. I’m so tired of being a fucking robot and doing—acting as what is expected.

I’m done. Everyone else better be ready to accept that. No more running. No more hiding. I miss not being afraid, or at least enjoying the taste of fear on my tongue.

And that starts with this letter for Liz.

* * *

Well. She got the letter. I think she read it. Frankly, I’m not 100% sure on how she feels because after she opened it, she burst into tears and ran off. So, on a scale of one to homicide, I’d give her reaction a four.

Morning seminar came and went in a blue of bullshit exercises to demonstrate techniques on time management and “making the best of this school year!” Aka, the school trying to get us to sign up for stupid ass clubs and Greek life. As much as that seems so on brand for me, cults aren’t really my thing. One bad experience with a frat is all I need for the rest of my life, ya know.

Math was…math. Enough said.

The only redeeming part of the day is walking into the art building. The halls smell like that chalky paint we used to use in elementary school and something a lot sharper, pungent like turpentine or mixing medium. A serene quiet encompasses the vast hallways of the old building. On the outside, it gives off a very Victorian vibe with the tall windows and stone columns, but the inside is…cozy. The walls are painted a warm tannish color that looks close to orange in the late afternoon light. Lounging areas are filed with plush sofas and bookcases stuffed with books on art history and theory.

It feels like home away from home.

As I approach the door of the lecture hall a hand grips my shoulder. For the second time today, a shriek pushes past my lips, and I quickly turn toward the person attached to the random hand, only this time, instead of catching myself, my own hand shoots out straight for the person face. Palm facing up, the heel of my hand catches the stranger in the nose, eliciting a pained grunt and a slew of curses.

“Ow! What the hell?”