Scars Of Truth

2 ➛ Strange Girl

The guy standing on the other side of the circulation desk was tall. So exceedingly tall, it felt like a joke. I tipped my head back to look at him properly and -- oh. Oh. he was quite adequate.

He had raven hair, styled into a wild wolf cut. His eyes were a vibrant leafy color, eyes that watched me with what could only be described as hostile. He bore resemblance to that of a wolf.

"Hello," I accidentally blurted. "Can I help you?"

A muscle in the gents jaw ticks, as his seething eyes buried holes into my skull.

"I need some nineteenth-century British poetry." The resonance of his deep voice pounded me square in the chest. I suppressed a shiver.

This man sounded wrathful, and if looks could kill, so help me my slender self would be crumpled on the marble floor by now.

Unfortunately for me I knew not a single damned thing about this library, nor where they kept their British poetry.

"Sorry, um...sir, but I'm afraid I'm unable to help you at the-"

"Why," His voice cut deep into my sternum.

"I don't have the experience to assist you, perhaps I could ring up one of the other-"

"So you're not qualified?"

My mouth shuts abruptly at his curt tone. This lad must be used to getting whatever it is he wanted when he whiped out condescending remarks and a murderous glare.

And I will admit that I was intimidated by -- the size of him, by the cool intelligence glinting in his dark eyes and by the strange yet hypnotizing pull that I felt towards him.

However I was not about to allow him to treat me like some housemaid.

"No, I am not qualified." I answered through gritted teeth.

"Then how about you go fetch someone who is."

Fetch?

I was left completely dumbfounded by this audacious man who didn't happen to have an ounce of respect for those around him.

"And what exactly did you think I was trying to say before you rudely interrupted me you nutsack?" I fired back impatiently.

"Nutsack?" the man repeated to himself in a hushed voice.

We both stared at each other, surrounded by a thick and suffocating tension. It wasn't until Rowan emerged from the bookshelves near the back, dusting her hands on the back of her jeans.

She caught sight of me and the brute, before letting out a faint gasp.

"Four." She whispered more to herself than to me.

What the hell?

"What's going on?" She asked, moving extra cautiously around Mr. Nutsack.

"Well, ol' pal over here needed help finding some nineteenth-century British poetry."

"Of course, follow me." She squeaked before scurrying to an enclosed section of the library. The nutsack guy followed close after her and I let out an exhausted sigh.

...

The first day of school was always the worst. It may not seem like it, but I didn't exactly find enjoyment frolicking amongst others. I was awkward and always stood out unintentionally, normally because of the way I looked.

I stared at myself in the mirror, barely recognizing myself. I wore knee high black socks, a mahogany pleated school skirt with a plain white button up and a navy blue jacket on top. I let my hair down from the bun I had slept in, allowing my colorless locks to flow just past my breasts.