The One Who Watches

Chapter One

Friday night, at a party I don’t belong in, invited by people who won't care to keep up with me because of how much I serve no purpose, or a fun attachment, not that I blame them either. The only tangible reason I came was the inexplicable need for being around people who you will never meet again, untethered to the chains of social cues, where you unbutton yourself for a brief moment. So I choose the usual; my short white dress with a slit that crossed my thighs and into the darkness between them. I choose to lean on the wall I recognize as my fair companion for the night, a drink in hand while I watch them all.

Perhaps it is a failing to be unable to unbutton yourself for a brief moment before it is locked up in the harsh daylight but there is nothing to be done. I fail to connect to strangers even though I choose to surround myself with them and their iniquities on a Friday night.

I know he’s beside me, but I don’t make contact. I never do. He’s doing the same thing I do, but for a brief moment, he turns to stare at me. After a while, he doesn’t turn to the crowd anymore. I can’t deny that it doesn’t bother me, but I don’t want to look. I hope he fades away. When I smell his cologne, I become mindfully alert.

He’s close.

“Do you find yourself to be better than them?” His eyes darts to the crowd and my eyes tilt to see, a tall lean silhouette, long lashes illuminated by the neon lights. “Being the one who watches.”

When he turns to look at me, I turn away.

“No, I don’t.” I answer truthfully. “When their bodies can no longer dance to the injury of night life, they will dance to the memories of it all, how their feet and body moved, how their minds were free and without caution, not how inevitably stupid they looked while doing it. We will have nothing."

I see the corners of his lips tilt up, “I envy them.”

I fold my arms, “Join them.”

He leans in closer, sinful lips reaching silently for my ears, just so I could hear just him. “I only know you.”

Something in my chest pulses and bravely, I turn to look at him—her. Eyes widened, I behold her tall frame, peering wildly at me, tender eyes concealing something inhibited within them. I wonder if the same can be said for mine.

I say the usual, “I can’t dance,”
But the cracks only deepen. She makes a small chuckle and extends her hand, waiting. Hesitation blinds me, but I still take it. She leads me into the open furnace and we burn together, two rocks clicking against together to set something apart.

The music plays and I find my feet and hands moving. For the first time I have something to prove. She makes small familiar movement but ultimately stops to watch me. Slowly, I am perceived in my tiny white dress but I dance, all for her, only her. Our eyes never depart from each other. She approaches me and I let her hands hold me, grabbing at my waist, tight and firm—selfish. I shiver. My hands reach for her arms where I touch and feel, my fingers slithering nicely against lean muscles under a shirt, rising slowly to her shoulders where I take a slight brush at her clavicle, my fingers brushing against a gold necklace, pendant? I can’t tell. One thing I can say is it has worth. Regardless, it is pretty and she can tell I am fascinated.

“Family heirloom.” She says.

“Then what are you doing here?” This place isn’t meant for her, the feet of the wealthy never reach here.

“Good question.” She smiles.

“Do you not like it there?”

“At my castle?” She whispers softly in my ears, her hands lowering down my waist. At least she’s honest.

“Yes.” I give away breathily. The way her hands move, expertly, guiding themselves through my body, just as a spell, blinding—tempting.

She chuckles, the sounds of her voice available only to my ears. I feel something coming apart.

“I’m more a fan of destruction. Unrivaled chaos.” Her fingers rise to the nape of my neck, stroking softly.

“Why?”

“Hm,” She grins, “At least I won’t be bored.” She lifts my jaw to meet her eyes. For a moment she’s silent, searching through for something I fail to realize then. “What is it that drives you to lean on a broken wall and watch strangers all night till your feet grow weary and your eyes are tired of the sin around you?”

She’s sucking the air out of me so fast and replacing it with something else.

“I don’t know.”

“Truth.”

“I don’t know.”

“What is it?”

Something rises to the top of my throat. I swallow but it doesn’t leave. My breathing is heavy, uneven, scared. Her thumb gently caresses my bottom lip, her other hand wraps around me like a comforting shoulder, a protective blanket.

I give in.

“Loneliness.”

Something glints in those eyes and it is only then that she kisses me, unashamedly passionate.

You don’t kiss strangers, you simply watch. You watch.

But dear God, this feels amazing, so amazing.

*

Author's Note:

My name is Ani and I welcome you to the story of The One Who Watches. It is birthed by my desire to write against my own insecurities. If one day you stumble upon this book, I hope it is worth the short read. I want to learn how to write and simply enjoy it again—just like it should be.