Sins On The Skin

VIII.

Three days.

It had been three whole days since that incident with his little neighbour occured and still there was not a single word from her. Or from the Dean, for that matter.

He considered that last part an important, albeit small, victory.

It meant that she was either considering his offer or had already come to a decision; both were in his favour, of course.

Nevertheless, those three days had driven him half-mad.

Everything bothered him.

A few faint sunrays that were making a shy appearance.

The bitter taste swimming in his mouth after every gulp of Scotch.

A lingering smell of something sweet that clung to his nostrils, fucking up his self-control.

The clock on the wall taunted him, taking seconds, minutes, hours away from him without any warning other than that fucking ticking sound.

Tick. Tock.

It was no secret that each hour that passed left him more and more empty.

Tick. Tock.

More and more alone.

Tick. Tock.

More and more desperate for things he could not name.

Tick. Tock.

Nathan hadn't slept in days or, well, it would be much more accurate to say that he hadn't allowed himself to sleep in days. Every time he closed his eyes and lethargy had almost taken over, a memory disguised as a dream kept appearing.

If only it was nothing more than a nightmare. . .

But, it wasn't.

It was never a nightmare.

So, he'd shake himself awake and do everything in his power not to fall asleep again.

Three nights of constantly rubbing his restless eyes, three nights of underachieving and over thinking, of lack of pretty distractions and migraines, of alcohol and shitty papers to grade.

Other than contemplating his next steps considering the game he had orchestrated so perfectly, he tried to write. He did. He really did with tried being the key word but every time his fingers caressed the keyboard, a few borrowed words would reach his mouth and he'd place his hands back down in momentary surrender.

The same two sentences over and over.

"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." Well, pass on a knife Ernest, I'm ready for a masterpiece.

But he wasn't.

Let's be real, in three nights he had written a grand total of two-thousand, nine hundred and fifty three words. He was not ready for a book, let alone a masterpiece.

But still, he created a plot in his head. A main character with enough secrets to drown in them and a face worthy of the screen. A body worth being torn to shreds over and hair dark as the night.

Someone disturbingly familiar.

Someone that he hadn't caught a glimpse of in days. Someone that had drawn her curtains shut, denying him the simple pleasure of breathing in her silhouette.

Someone that could sue him for copyright claims and harassment, if she ever stumbled upon the book.

On the flip side, that would never happen if he didn't manage to finish the book, if his publisher finally decided to drop him. But still, that wasn't good enough to drown the little voice inside of him, the one that spoke in tongues he had never learned.