BLACK

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Black Chapter 8

BLACK Chapter 8

After taking a look from the other side of the doorway, I step inside. To my right there’s a huge book case to the foot of the door and a climbing step on the floor to reach the highest shelf. Multiple varieties and selected textbooks stack behind one another-along with a couple old century dictionaries. There are four different walls, The one behind me which leads to the door is gray. The other three facing each other present different shades which seems to resemble the sides of a person.

I can see the vibrant red across of where I stand, the hanging moral is a small picture frame, it doesn’t hold a photo though, which I find odd. It’s an empty golden frame in the middle of a red painted wall.

I turn to the next side of the room, the theme is silent. The off-white color is set to un-disturb the mind. When I reach the wooden desk, my fingers run across an open book. But the pages are left unwritten, there’s a single pen at the corner of the desk-but, that’s all that’s placed here. Nothing more. I notice the multiple picture frames hanging above, one catches my attention, it’s a captured image of a timekeeper meter. I don’t understand why he didn’t just hang up a working clock instead of framing one. Is he waiting on time? What is it with him and time anyway.

I turn my head to the last corner of the room. But he’s looking at me, his eyes watch my every movement as I observe the painting above the last desk. “It’s a replica of the Mona Lisa; seventeenth century for exact. Illustrated to be the original copy cat.” He says nervously, informing me. I nod in response and move across the gray tiled floor.

This side of the room is darker, the walls are black and there’s a clicking time clock sitting on top of the desk. Instead of wood, this one is made of steal. The chair is leather not like the last two, fabric made. There isn’t a book across the desk like the last two either, only four black candles and a feathered ink pen. I turn around to face him but he’s seated at the red section of the room now.

“Pick a station, and sit.” He insists.

I look around the room, deciding. The red portion is already being occupied with him and white isn;t of much of my intentions at the moment-so I choose black. I sit on the quilted leather, the back of my head resting on the top of the headrest. “The first drawer to your left has writing utensils. Open it.” He stands up and walks across the desk in front of him, he stands before it. I open the drawer, picking a black pencil from the cupboard and a single leather notebook.

When I look up his lower back is bend to the surface of the wooden workstation, his arms cross towards his chest and he speaks again. “The first thing you should know about my class is how to understand a criminal, what makes them tick?” His eyebrows form a line in concentration. “What causes this behavior? What has corrupted their mind?” He unfolds his arms from his chest and brings the fisted fingers in front of his crotch.

“I never thought of it that way.” I say, twirling the pen between my palms. “Well what’s the difference between a Sociopath and a Psychopath then?” I ask.

“Absolutely nothing, these words have been hijacked by society to fit there own selfish definitions.“His head tilts to the side, out of curiosity he chuckles. “Sociopath and Psychopaths are labeled under one term. Antisocial. They both tend to be nervous freaks with everything that surrounds them, they are easily agitated. If fear strikes their way, it’s very difficult for them to form attachments to an individual.” He moves to the white side of the room, still speaking. “-they can not hold a steady job nor communicate for more than five minutes before their angered behavior kicks in.” He sits across the room from me, eye level.

I reconsider my opinion on that statement. “I thought they were different.”

“You thought wrong then, the world around us takes things that does not belong to them and turns them bad.” He says, stating to the fact of my question. “As long as they do not meet the four Ds. Dysfunctional, Distress, Deviant and lastly, Danger.” He explains calmly and I loose my thought by the way his swollen pink lips are moving slowly to each vowel.

“The four Ds together make up mental health professionals’ definition of behaviors or feelings being abnormal.” He informs me of his profound knowledge. “They capture what most of us mean when we call something abnormal while avoiding some of the problems of using only the unusualness factors of the world. However, there is no sharp line between normal and abnormal Amelia, because the only thing you have to fear is yourself.” He swallows, continuing.

“They are in no position able to feel empathy for another living thing, even though they are quite charming and can gain your trust within seconds.” He shakes his head, raking the side of his jaw. “They learn to mimic emotions, despite their inability to actually feel any, and they appear rather normal to others.” His eyes lock with mine as he speaks the last few words. “These types of people can be very, very dangerous.”

I bite the temptation to be sarcastic with him but instead my brain speaks for me. “I see, so which one are you?” I tease.

He leans back, squinting his eyes-chuckling lightly to himself. “I’m appalled Amelia. What makes you think I could be any of those things?” He answers with a question.

“Because you never share anything about yourself.”

He wants to respond with a sarcastic remark, I can see it in his cold eyes as they take every inch of my face. His fingers move to his collared shirt, I watch him struggle as he picks at the button underneath his chin, when it pops open he exhales slowly. “There isn’t much to share that’s why.”

I want to say something to piss him off, I’m not sure why but it’s quite fun watching him gain control. He’s waiting for me to speak but I choose against ruining the moment. I know he’s urging to say something interesting.

I make eye contact with him but he looks down to his now crossed hands. “Psychologist say the moons impact can affect the water circulating in our brain. Hence why serial killers tend to kill mostly during late at night.”

“That I didn’t know.” I’m surprised with the amount of knowledge he consumes. For someone who teaches law he knows quite a lot about how the mind works. “Why do you know this?”

He looks at me from across the room, I can’t tell what he’s thinking, he seems to be lost in thought but I’m distracted too with the rings around his long fingers, they buckle to the wooden desk beneath them and the metal makes a small sound as it hits friskily across the surface. “My sister studied psychology in college, wouldn’t shut up about how fascinating the brain was.” He finally says something but it’s not about himself.

“You have a sister?” I’m surprised when he mentions a piece about his life.

He smiles, bringing the palm of his right hand under his chin. He looks like a child in this position and I smile back. “Yes, Amelia I have a half-sister. She’s younger than I am. And she’s quite annoying.”

Half-sister? He has a half-sister. I’m assuming they don’t share the same last name. I mentally groan to myself, he’s never going to reveal his identity to me.

“What’s her name?” I ask, since he doesn’t want me to know his-I’m allowed to know his sisters.

He shakes his head, rolling his green eyes towards my direction. “Of course you’d ask that.”

“Just making conversation.” I say innocently.

He hums and taps his fingertips on the desk. “Izzy is her name.”

I roll my eyes now. “Izzy what? She doesn’t have a last name?”

He warns me about rolling my eyes and I smirk at him. “Are you always this curious Miss Amelia?”

“Yes.” I say honestly. There’s no point in lying to him. He’s too smart for it. And for some reason I don’t want too.

“We do not have the same father. Our mother is the only connection we share.” His tone of voice stiffens at the surface of his tongue. The mention of his mother has changed his behavior.

“Oh.” Is the only word I say. I feel the tension between us, and I don’t push any further. He has shared more information about himself since I’ve met him in less than sixty seconds.

“I like your house.” I change the conversation, lighting the mood.

He nods, thanking me and drags the drawer from the bottom of the desk. A black notepad is slammed on the surface and a pen now resting between his fingers. “I have work to do, you can finish on that assignment if you like.” Well alright, his mood has completely taken a turn. Odd.

“Thank you.” I don’t have any words to say so thanking him is the only thing I have.

He stops writing, his eyes bare into mine from towards the other side of the room. “Why are you thanking me. I haven’t done anything.”

“I can tell you are a very private person and you answered my question this time-without avoiding it or giving me an excuse so yes I’m thanking you for being honest.”

He fights a smirk, instead he nods. “I don’t have a problem with sharing other people’s information. It’s mine that I don’t give out.”

“But wh-” He cuts me off before I’m able to finish.

“Because Amelia, when all your life you are taught to be a certain way that is all you know to do.”

“You don’t have to be the way your parents raised you. You’re old enough to understand yourself.”

He sighs in frustration. “I’m sorry I have work to do. And so do you.” He whispers.

I can see the disappointment in his face as he peels eye contact. His attention returns to the papers in front of him. I stare at the way his fingers gently fold around the black pen. The back of his thumb glides across the edge of the page, turning it to the next. His face is stiff in place while his eyes bounce across the words written for him to read. He looks concentrated, but not at peace. His nose flairs as he inhales sharply when he reads over a sentence he disagrees with. Shaking his head, he crosses out a huge amount of information and replaces it with his own words. I can’t help but stare, the way he works alone is very thorough. The amount of time and patience he puts into reading and correcting work is something not every professor does. I watch like an idiot as he picks up another stack of assignments to grade.

“Staring is concerned to be an obsession.” He speaks, breaking the nice silence but he doesn’t look up. He’s still writing.

I clear my throat, but I don’t avert my eyes from his mouth. “I’m not staring, I’m observing from a distance.”

“Oh is that so?” His eyes rake my face. I nod in response.

“Come here.” He places the pen down, flipping the work to the front of the page. He pushes it aside making room for his hands to sit on the clean desk.

“Why?” I’m too curious when it comes to him.

“Because I want to rip that little red shirt off your body.”

My face stiffens at his words, or I think that’s what he said. I can’t be hearing right. He did not just say that to me. He couldn’t have. That’s preposterous. What do I do? Do I go over there.. But I don’t even think I heard him right. My mind is playing tricks on me. He couldn’t have said that to his student.

“Excuse me?” I ask instead, I want to hear those words again no matter how wrong they might seem...

“Did you not hear what I said?” He smiles weakly. When I don’t respond he speaks what he has previously said. “I said come here Amelia so I can check your writing.”

Oh god...A part of me is disappointed, those words sounded incredibly hot but he didn’t say them. That’s what I want him to say. No! I shake my head at the in inappropriate thoughts. He’s my teacher, what am I thinking. There’s no way in hell he would ever have thoughts of a student. That way out of his league.

This is horrible. I need to get out of here. I stand to my feet collecting the notepad, leaving the pen behind. I stand inches away from the desk he’s seated across, careful about our distance. His fingers glide over mine as I hand him the work. “You don’t have to be so stiff.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are.” His eyes wander over my body before resting on my face and I feel ashamed to say it. I like the way he looks at me.

He ignores the blank expression I respond with and begins to lift his pen. I can already tell I have failed on the first paragraph as I see his eyes roll to the back of his head, he crosses my words and again replaces them with the ones he wants.

I rest my back against the wall behind him watching, his hair falls carelessly down his forehead. He looks comfortable even in his work clothes. His left hand comes up slowly lifting his brown hair behind his ears. He has quite long hair for a male. “Do you bring all your students to your house?” I ask out of boredom and he stops correcting the page he’s on, his head turns in my direction but his body stays facing the desk. “No.”

“Then why am I here?” I look down, shifting on both my feet.

“Because I find your presence ultimately indulging,” the bottom of his heals turn and he’s facing me now. The rotating chair stops at the contact below my knees.

“What does that even mean?” I stare coldly into his eyes.

“It means that even if I tried, I can’t bare to stay twenty feet away from you.”

Oh my...He can’t feel like that. This is forbidden in so many cultures. Not forgetting he’s ages older than me. I sigh to myself. What have I gotten into.

“This is so wrong.” I whisper under my breath.

He notices my expression but doesn’t dwell on it. “You don’t think I know that.”

“Then what are you doing?” I say just as the tips of his fingers run down my arm. Goosebumps rise to the surface, he notices the effect he has over me and strives for it. This has got to stop, once at the grass party where Kate dragged me too-was way out of character. That scene that he pulled is forever embedded into my memory but now in his house. Oh god..

“I crave touch in a tragic way Amelia, I like to feel with my hands.” He says slowly all while both the palms of his hands have reached the curve of my back.

So this is why he’s so attentive of his hands, because he feels with them? What a strange way of seeing things.

“I’m not a man that’s fond of exploring each other’s sèxual desires.” His long wandering fingers come in contact with the skin just beneath my top.

“What do y-you mean?” I say, my words come out in small shuddered breaths as I feel the cold metal of his rings press into my flesh; he’s moving too slow. I sense the hesitation in his movements, he’s afraid. But why? He’s quite high-handed as I can recall. Why be so nervous this time.

“Skin is in the form Braille,” He presses the palm of his left hand to the bottom of my back. His thumb stays at the indent of my spine and he stops there. “-you’re only meant to read the words at touch but it’s hard for someone to read if they don’t understand how to feel in the right places.”

“So you don’t have sèx? Is that what you’re saying?” I’m confused.

He looks at me with cold eyes, the green is still very vibrant as I stare back into them. “No,” He breaths in.

Everything he speaks out loud is so carefully said, as if he’s afraid of accidentally saying something he isn’t suppose to.

“It’s not a necessity for me.” He shrugs.

He seems to have quite a few things that he doesn’t find a necessity too. This being the second I have witnessed.

I try to move closer to him, he’s much lower in height as he sits on the chair. I stand before him a couple inches away but he stops me from moving anywhere. His palms grip at the sides of my hips and he squeezes the skin to my bones.

I place my right hand on the side of his face and his skin shudders under my touch. His green eyes close momentarily but open again. I can see the light in them but it’s not the same as they were a few seconds ago. This source of light is concealed; and shady. It still shines-but not with the same intention for something innocent as when our fingers touch. This is a different kind of light. It’s much more darker, haunted and black.

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