Perhaps the university really would devour me. I could already feel the slow consumption taking bites of the edge of my mind, nibbling away at the meat of me.
And dreams… my dreams… they were sapping the energy from me. Night after night, dream after dream, moving shadows and voices in the dark. The sound of an owl hooting in the woods made my skin crawl.
Though the lack of sleep gave me more time to work on my assignments. With everything happening in my life, it must be the stress corrupting the chemicals in my brain. I couldn’t concern myself with delusions when I had a thesis to write and assistant hours to keep up with. Hours, and hours, and hours.
Hours.
There were so many hours in a day. And they were, all of them… lonely.
Except when I was with Professor Quinn.
After the first awkward week passed, we settled into a noticeable routine. He never mentioned what his daily strides were before, only adapted to accommodate me into the fold. I met him at his office at the agreed upon times. Professor Quinn silently handed over my work for the session: grading assignments, editing coursework, or building from his existing lesson plans. And his presence provided a sort of agonizing company.
Not that he was cruel or demanding, but because it seemed neither of us knew what to say to one another half the time. Within the unspoken boundaries laid between us, his was the company that alleviated my loneliness.
We seemed to simultaneously come to the same conclusion that whatever chemistry ignited each time our obits crossed endangered the precarious line of a student and teacher’s relationship. Sparks when hands accidentally brushed together over his desk, lingering stares when the other wasn’t looking, an incessant pool of warmth building in my stomach the moment I crossed the threshold into his office. There was only so long I could endure the sight of his forearms when he rolled up his sleeves before gnawing off my bottom lip. So, we only ever spoke about the bare minimum.
I don’t accept late assignments.
Can you clarify your grading rubric here?
Do you mind leading my office hours this week?
Hand me that pen.
Nothing of substance. Not since the first meeting. At any rate, I might have said the stints of stillness in between conversations were companionable. Two people who understood the language of silence, caged within the warm confines of his cozy, isolated office. Time stretched thin and sweet, like molasses, glueing us together. Cloying, saccharineand bittersweet in the back of the throat. There was an understated intimacy hidden in those shared hours.
I sat in the same seat as the first visit, sharing his desk space. Close enough for our feet to occasionally bump together underneath. If his sharp leather loafer stayed connected to the toe of my boot, only the shadows bore witness.
The tension ran so high that by the conclusion of each shift my panties were soaked through. It was a miracle I hadn’t left a permanent wet spot on the chair by the end of our first month working together. Between the physical frustration and sleepless hours, my vibrator could barely keep up.
Exhaustion often led to poor choices. I didn’t want to dream of beasts or birds. I didn’t want to dream at all.
When caffeine and orgasms couldn’t keep me awake, like a junkie seeking thrills, I sought out Moth, Niffy, and Talon. For distraction and entertainment, sure, but that part of me that longed for friendship kept me going back for more. Whatever dangers the professor tried to warn me of didn’t exist within their little trio. I’d hardly consider grabbing a few drinks at the bar dangerous. Not by any stretch.
They were simply… odd.
Strange comments I didn’t understand and jokes that went over my head weren’t uncommon for me. Learning their social cues and body language each weekend helped me maneuver my piece on the gameboard. I wanted to overcome my frequent relationship challenges but could only afford so much of my attention on masking myself into the person they wanted to be friends with.
It was easy to sit with them in a crowded bar, drink in hand and palm sweating from the glass’s condensation, arm resting on the residually sticky surface while they volleyed conversation back and forth. Classes, students, professors, obscure media and indie music. It was easy for me to escape into my mindand watch them interact. Several times Moth asked for my opinion on a subject I had no experience with, and they laughed and moved on. I flushed hot and red before melting into the safe confines of my daydreams and spiraling thoughts. They didn’t seem to mind that I had difficulty focusing or sustaining attention on their favorite topics.
Most times I felt like an ornament, or a useless fourth leg, to them. It didn’t matter. Not really. As long as I wasn’t alone and they didn’t bring up my family, I’d continue seeking out their company.
It was Saturday evening, and I hadn’t yet heard from the trio about meeting up. I tapped my pen on the edge of my laptop, listening to the rhythmic click of plastic on metal mimicking the seconds passing. Being forgotten for a meetup didn’t bother me as much as being alone in the house for too long. Hours, and hours, and hours—every little groan of the house creaking and shifting made me flinch.
I slammed my pen onto my notebook then closed the laptop.
My thoughts were dizzying, and there was no way I’d be able to study under the incessant spiraling and jitters. The familiar warmth of my grandfather’s study only went so far to comfort me. The atmosphere hugged me close, and draped me in a soothing sense of nostalgia. In the confines of my only sense of safety, I craved the blessed escape of sleep. But outside the barricade of the book-laden shelves, the floors creaked, and the overgrown hedges battered the exterior walls.
Panic increasingly threaded through my veins, and the ever-present background sense of dread provoked urgent restlessness. I shifted in the wingback seat and tugged at my collar even though it wasn’t touching my neck. The rattling outside grew louder as the evening wind howled a haunting tune, sharper and sharper.
Skritch-crack. Skritch-crack. Skritch-CRACK.
Heart thundering, I jumped from the chair. Too fast. My hip banged into the corner of the desk. Pain radiated through me, and I doubled over.
“Fuck…shit!” I hissed through my teeth, collapsed on the floor and curled around my aching hip. My whine broke into a pitiful whimper. I rolled onto my back, sprawled across the rug like a pathetic rag doll and feeling properly sorry for myself.
How did I end up in this mess?
