Dreamlocked

Chapter 3: Damn My Curiosity, Damn the Blue

Hello my lovely readers, here I am with an update!

Nice to be back and typing.

So I have nothing to say here and I assume y'all want to read.

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I looked up from my notes and spotted the blue box again; the one I saw from my window earlier. I could almost laugh. An impossible blue box on the corner that magically appears overnight, one weird lock-picking ginger-haired stranger coming to call, and a mysterious third step on a spiral staircase that I’ve always stopped on; this was my day. It couldn't even be noon yet! So much for a boring Tuesday, thank God. The life of a detective was never boring; I'll give it that, but why was I always bored? And why, just this once, did the mysteries seem worth solving?

I turned my gaze away from the blue and back to my notes. On the page opposite the stranger's I did a quick sketch of the police box. I turned the page and wrote a quick To-Do list. Investigate the stairwell, was the one and only entry. I turned back a page and looked at my lock picking ginger's profile. I closed my eyes and saw his face clear as day. I could feel my pencil flying. It's scratching stopped and I was looking down at his face right down to the scar above his left eyebrow. It wasn't noticeable until I saw it. Something about my sketch seemed off though. I surveyed his face. It was accurate in every aspect, right down to the very last detail, but his eyes seemed far too old for a man who could be no older than I.

I closed my notes, tucked them away, and shoved the pencil back into my coat pocket. My fingers brushed my glasses. I wrapped my hand around them and pulled them out. They were clean and for reading; I had a book, so why not? It was nice out, in my opinion anyway. I gingerly placed them on my nose and opened the book yet again. Books always caused me to be absorbed and detached. I loved them all too well. Books were practically my only friends since I was little. Sherlock Holmes could be a distraction; a break from thinking because he would have to be the thinker and I could relax, but I still loved doing it. Thinking, I practically never stopped, and here I go again lost on a crashing train of thought. Considering possibilities and putting two and two together. It was my specialty, but also drove many people away. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was no longer drawing my attention; I was too absorbed with my personal mysteries.

“What’s with the bloody notepad?”

I turned around to face the questioner. The words pulled me out of my head.

“My notepad? It stunts my boredom.” I shrugged.

“Boredom?”

“You have no idea.”

“You must do something?”

“I do.”

“Alright then, what do you do?”

I cracked a small smile.

“I’m a sleuth.” I made my eyebrows dance then stood. A flash of blue swam in the corner of my eye. Damn my curiosity; damn the blue.

“Is that even a job?”

“Sure it is.”

“Do you make money?”

“Occasionally.” I said glancing furtively at the mystery box across the street.

“Occasionally? How do you make money occasionally if it’s a job that doesn’t exist?”

“Hold that thought?” It was more questioning than commanding. He could continue if he desired.

“Why?” He asked. We asked each other a lot of questions.

“That.” I pointed my left pointer accusingly at the blue box and saw him freeze again, like when he was before the door. Maybe he had sustained mental trauma that surfaced every so often, but I wouldn’t place my money on it. He didn’t look like the sort who got into a lot of trouble.

“That?” He asked pointing at the box too.

“Yes, that. If you’ll excuse me.” I pushed past him into the rain hiding my book in my jacket.

“Wait!” He yelled right as I stepped on the road. There was no stopping me; my sense of intrigue was too strong.

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It's short I know, but I'm saving something for the next chapter.

Until next time.

Back to my government homework then.

BYYYYYEEEEEE!!!!

~Avery

P.S. If you could tell people about me, I would be grateful.