Abstract

Chapter 3

I walk into my apartment in a hurry, pacing across the floor.

My fingers fumble to undo the lock on my phone, before pressing the emergency contact button.

"Hello?"

"Mallory?" I ask.

"Adella! How's France? Give me all the details."

Mallory and I have been friends for a couple of years. We get alone fine, but we're complete opposites. She is very open and social, while I'm a little more reserved. I'm skinny and all legs, while she's curvy and muscular. Our friendship is kind of fake. I'm more like her sidekick while she's the hero who gets all the attention.

"I need your advice." I say, nervously rubbing the back of my neck.

"Kay,"

I tell her about Harry, strongly mentioning that Aimeé downstairs said that he is ill-mannered.

"I totally think you should go talk to him!"

"I don't know. Aimeé was pretty specific on why not to go up there."

"Go! He might be hot, and you could be missing out. If he's an asshole then just leave."

"I don't know..." I say again. "There's always this weird crashing upstairs."

"There are a million reasons not to go up there, but you have to get past those and focus on the one reason why you should."

"And that reason is...?"

"That you want to meet him just as much as he wants to meet you."

I sigh, realizing she's right. "Okay."

"Let me know how it goes!" She pauses. "Actually, tell me in a couple hours. I'm going to a college party and I have to get ready."

"Sure," I say.

I hang up first, taking deep breaths. Why am I so nervous?

The walk up the the top floor seems longer than usual, and I think a couple times about turning around. If Harry wants to meet me he can come to my own front door. Then I realize that when I heard Aimeé and Harry talking that she mentions that he never leaves his apartment. He must, for he put that note on my door.

I stand in front of the door, pausing for just a minute. All of my imagining and thinking about Harry has lead to this.

I knock on the door, and it creaks open by itself.

Inside it's dark, barely enough light to allow me to see. I take a few cautious steps into the room, whispering, "Hello?"

I make my way around the dimmed room, looking for my neighbor. I don't know what I'm doing inside his apartment, or what I'm doing looking for him in general.

The walls are black, along with the furniture. The only way I'm able to see is because of the lights coming in from the street lamps. That's when I realize that every aspect of the apartment is colored black.

Except the paintings.

They're scattered everywhere, taking up most of the room in the apartment. Some of the paintings are incredibly beautiful, images of angels and nature, while some or horrifying, representations of devils and skulls. Paint is splattered against the wood floors, and brushes are messily thrown across the room. Some paintings sit on stands, while others lay across the floor. The rest of the paintings are covered with stained sheets.

I take one of the sheets off, and underneath is a painting of scribbles. The primary colors are grey, while he took the black paint brush and scrawled over some parts.