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Black Chapter 4

BLACK Chapter 4

The insides of my mouth become dry, my mind clearing of any sort of language to object back. As if the part of my brain that stores my speech settings--now drying to its surface--becoming impaired under his stare.

I lick my lips, wetting the surface. “Let go.” My voice breaks, feeling smaller than I prefer it to be. Rather than doing the opposite, H has managed to stop circulation around my forearm. The area has become numb in place and I wince from the pain. The engraved rings around his fingers have wounded the surface of my skin--leaving the identical image. “Please.” I look at him, the pain in my voice is enough to knock his cold hand from my aching skin.

His features drastically become hopeless-as if he’s done a bad deed, his eyes increasingly grow heavy in place and he frowns. But the fact that I have no words to speak sends him responding first.

“Amelia.” He whispers, sliding both his hands down his face, resting them at the base of his chin bone.

I can’t bare to look at him, I stare at the un-clasped buttons on his chest instead. He sighs but doesn’t move from before me. “I have never touched a student.” I’m surprised with his words. I was expecting an apology at the least.

I focus on the silver rings on each of his fingers placed right between the space of his knuckles. There rather large and look expensively made. The engraved pattern seems readable but I’m cut from thought when I feel the pressure underneath my chin lifting my face forward. His index finger hooks into my jawbone and I look up to find he’s wanting my eyes to find his.

“I don’t know what got over me.” He assures himself mostly, narrowing his eyes in horror.

I’m immediately gazing towards his lips, they look as soft as his hands feel. The blood rushing to his face takes more effect on his mouth than any other area. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” I watch as he speaks, they move in sync giving off every word. I can tell he’s waiting for a reply but I don’t seem interested in giving one.

He lets go too quickly, I whine from the movement but he doesn’t seem to have heard. I’m assuming he isn’t going to apologize. I watch as he collects my books from the steps. I stand in sight as he brings every edge back to surface. When he’s done, he climbs back up the stairwell, handing me what’s remained of them. “Here.” He blinks and avoids eye contact. That’s a first.

I take them from him, making sure our fingers brush. He’s quick to move his hand but I reach for it instead, his muscles move underneath my skin as I watch his fingers untangle from mine. “What do your rings say.”

I look up, I find him already staring with both eyebrows creasing at the surface. He wants to reply but looks between us instead. The heat rushing to my face is faster than I feel. My palms become moist and his fingers are slowly slipping away.

“It’s written in braille.” He answers, removing the silence from the room. I look at the rings again and as if my eyes have failed me. He’s right.

The tip of my fingertips trace over the smallest of dots--his eyes follow as I do so. They seem as if not in order, I go along the pattern multiple times but still don’t understand it. The heal of his boots snaps me to life, I turn my head to his and he’s moved the remaining few inches between us. I can smell the fresh gum radiating from his mouth again. “This one,” He whispers, I would have almost missed his words if I weren’t standing in this distance. “Yes.” I say, urging him to continue.

“Says pleasure.” He grabs my index finger where he meets the tip of the my nail, and slowly glides it across the surface of the round metal.

I smile at the simplicity of the word.


To give, to receive.

As if he’s reading my mind, he places my finger on the next one. “Greed.”

And the next. “Ardor.”

“Why in braille?” I have to ask.

He lets go too soon and my fingers run cold. “Why not in braille?” He answers, leaving me in awe. He’s much more than what he puts off to be.

“It’s a form of written language for the blind, in which characters are representing patterns of dots. Which can only be read and felt with touch.” He states his reasoning.

“I meant why did you have it in braille, why not just plain English?”

“Touch is a very powerful human characteristic...that not much seem to value Miss Amelia.” He says, placing both hands back into his pockets.

I take notice that he is not very found of them, which I don’t quite understand. There amazingly soft-almost feather like. The crease of muscles in his long fingers add to the distraction as well. They’re perfect.

I shift from one foot to the other, creating a diversion. He clears his throat loudly and speaks. “Don’t you have a class to get to Amelia?” And he’s back to himself.

I shake my head, looking into his cold eyes. He looks back with much force.

“Is there something you want to ask me?” His tone is stiff, not tender as it was minutes ago.

“Yes,” I’m quick to answer, he can sense the eagerness in my tone. He smirks, the side of his lip curling. “Of course you do.” He moves to sit in one of the desk behind. I stand before him, wrapping both my arms around my books--bringing them to my chest.

He brings his right leg above, resting the ankle on the knee. I watch as he places his tangled hands on the wooden desk. After he’s done making himself comfortable he speaks to me again. “I’m all yours.”

I let those words sink in before asking him the question I would like the answer to. “Any day now Amelia.” He chuckles, the sound echoes between us, radiating off my skin and into my ears.

“Why do you call yourself H?”

He looks at me, curiously--tilting his head to the side. He wets his lips, gliding his tongue across the surface. “Does it matter what I call myself?” I think about his question. But I still want to know. “It does.”

“Why does it really Amelia.” It leaves his mouth in an argumentative tone. “Because I don’t know who you are,” I point the obvious.

“You are not suppose to know who I am, your suppose to know what I teach you.” He raises one of his thin eyebrows against me.

“I-I just thoug-”

“Let me tell you what you thought,” His tone has darkened. He’s very much annoyed now. “You thought that by knowing my name you had a better chance of getting to know who I was.”

I’m taken back by his words. He should have said am instead of was. But he didn’t. He said was on purpose.

“Who says anything about who you were?” I question his statement using his words against him. I roll my eyes at his need to keep everything about him a secret.

His cold eyes are in a fair squint before he relaxes them to normal. “Did you just roll your eyes?” His lips part in disbelief.

He’s up on his feet within seconds after the words leave his mouth. “What did we say about discipline Miss Amelia?” He’s quick to respond again, my brain hasn’t formed one sentence in respond. I’m more distracted with the veins at the sides of his neck. “That smart mouth is going to get you in a lot of trouble on day,” He’s closer now, much closer, I move back slightly only to be hit with cemented walls. Both his large hands grip at the edges of my books, he slowly rakes them apart from my arms-all while cold eyes roam my face.

The hall is quiet, leaving the only distinct sound of our shallow breathing--until the thudding of my hard-covered books smack against the wooden floor. For some unusual reason, I’m not scared. I should be, but my inner self is much too occupied absorbing the warmth of his green eyes.

From the corner of my eye I watch as his hands move to either side of the wall, he slides them up meeting the sides of my face. Locking me in place, mentally-but the physical space between our bodies is much larger than I prefer. “Well then maybe you need to be taught what’s polite.”

His barriers stay hidden but not for long as he becomes dangerously close. The tips of his thumbs brush calmly at the sides of my exposed arms. His breathing is sharp, letting me taste the hallow peppermint as he exhales from the access of his mouth. It’s cool against my nose, he smiles in response-knowing the effect. “And how are you willing to accomplish that Sir?”

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