Ebony Wings

6

~Ali~

I wake up sprawled on the yoga mat with the blanket bunched uncomfortably at my feet, my face creased from a night of rough sleep. I squint in the bright room, the sunlight cutting sharp shapes across the floor through the closed window.

Groggy, I force my body into a sitting position and rake my fingers through my tangled hair. They catch in the fine strands, an unforgiving clump forming between my fingers. Sighing, I give up on my hair and smooth down yesterday's clothes, too tired last night to even change out of my jeans before collapsing in sleep. 

The silence muffling our space tells me I wake alone in the room, that much is obvious. The other half of the yoga mat is cold, Jaz's phone is missing from its charger and there are dirty dishes on the counter that were not there last night. I do not know Jaz very well yet but I do know her well enough to realise that she would never wake up a minute earlier than necessary on a weekend.

I stand up and arch my back, twisting all my bones and muscles into movement. I rub the sleep from my eyes and straighten my sleep shirt as I go on the hunt for a glass of water. Half way to the kitchen, with my fingers still poking the corners of my eyes, I stop cold in my tracks. Call me a psycho but I swear my foggy brain just clocked a man in the corner of my vision perched on my desk.

No, I have had this ridiculous psychosis before. It is just my jacket hanging on the back of the chair and my mind thinks it is a man. But I am powerless to stop the instant twist of anxiety in my chest and the sickness that churns in my stomach. I swivel on the spot and shriek at the top of my lungs (yes, I have been reduced to one of those girls) because there, balancing amongst my books and pencils, is a man - a real life man. 

I jolt backwards screaming, smacking unintelligently against the wooden cupboards of the kitchen bench in my panic. But the most bizarre thing yet (if there could be something more peculiar) is his utter lack of concern. He is just sitting there, idly dangling his legs, his eyes roaming casually around the room, periodically landing on me before wandering again.

I blink hard, hoping and praying that when I open them again he will have vanished, right along with my bout of insanity. But no such luck. My heart rate spikes and my palms become clammy against the bench top as I become paralysed in place. He looks at me again and my breath hitches, trapped in my throat as if someone has pinched my trachea. Offhandedly, he swipes a blunt pencil from my mug of writing instruments and twists it mindlessly through his fingers as if this was not the most terrifying moment of my life.

When he fumbles inattentively with the pencil, it soon becomes apparent that he is of no imminent threat and I slowly become more curious than fearful. When he does not hold my deploring gaze, I ceremoniously clear my throat, hoping this time he will meet my stare. That is when confusion begins to cloud his calculating gaze as my stormy eyes move unblinkingly from his lucent ones. The pencil is placed gently back into the mug with a dull clink.

"And who are you exactly?" I remark snidely, may aim being to cover my nervousness behind a confident exterior. My voice sounds so obviously fearful to me but I hedge my bets on the fact that this guy knows nothing about me and rather reads my cold body language over the tone of my words.

Despite his gently tanned skin, the colour seems to leach from his face leaving his cheeks an unflattering alabaster. He jumps soundlessly - almost too soundlessly - on to the floor, pointing limply at his chest, as if it was even a question if I was talking to him or not.

"Who else would I be talking to, creep?" I spit and fumble for the metal handle of the spatula discarded behind me. Holding something in my grip makes me feel both armed and helps to steady my shaking hands.