Do You Know Indigo?

Chapter One

Edited 10th May 2020.

There was an undeniable naivety to my hopefulness that he would return; a paralysing irony to my dread when he did. I believed the indigo-eyed boy to be devilishly cunning but as dangerous as the other boy I had encountered with abnormal eyes? Well, that was yet to be seen.

My first encounter with Indigo Eyes had been three weeks prior. It hadn't crossed my mind to consider the coincidence of the date, its significance and what he might have to do with it. It was an otherwise mundane Monday afternoon, fifth-period history class. Mr. Gregory, a man who was utterly content in his ordinariness, was preoccupied with introducing the Cuban Missile Crisis to students who were indisposed attempting to stay conscious. I sat back and centre, regretting the choice I had made months before to be subjected and introduced to anything of the historical kind.

You smelt him first. The putrid air of adolescence became subtly perfumed with the colourful scent of winter and its spices. Nostalgic memories of fresh gingerbread, crackling fires and pine stirred and with them my attention, once wallowing in a post-lunch weariness, peaked in curiosity.

I twisted in my chair and searched for the source of the scent, unfamiliar to the Spring outside and the untameable armpit stench inside. Anyone watching me would have declared my inquisitiveness crazy; a fair assumption considering the personal significance of this Monday whether we were choosing to acknowledge that significance or not. No one else seemed to care for or have noticed the change in the air. It was perfectly possible I had imagined it - a conclusion I was an expert at coming to for the sake of my sanity and my therapists'.

Unsatisfied, I slouched back into my chair and focused on Mr. Gregory, anchoring my senses to his monotonous charm. It did not take long to lull myself into a false sense of security deep enough not to notice when he first entered the room.

It was only when I looked up to study the beginnings of rainfall that I realised the boy was there at all. His stride was calculated and considered as he sized up the class, found something to his liking and welcomed himself to the empty chair two seats down from my own.

The fact that nobody had noticed his entrance or presence would have intrigued me first and foremost, if not for the strangeness of the boy himself. The plastic chair didn't creak, as was customary, when the boy bent over to retrieve a bound notebook from his satchel. He was graceful and quick and reeked of an enviable self-confidence. His willowy frame placed itself in a careless fashion over the chair and he began scribbling away with a fascinating intent. Every so often his hand would pause and would consider a detail in earnest, creating deep crinkles in his brow. Then, after due speculation, he erased something. His lip curled in satisfaction and in that fraction of a moment he became even more remarkable, nothing more so than those bewitching indigo eyes.

I was afraid to admit to myself that I enjoyed taking him in. My infatuations were shallow and should have been deterred by the self-congratulating smugness of his grin. Artlessly, I untied my hair and let it fall to mask the faint glow in my cheeks.

I was warm, that was all.

Despite my caution, the boy's hand paused and his head turned so that his stare met mine. There was a sudden familiarity that I could not mistake and it was terrifying.

As inadvertently as possible I looked down at the blank paper in front of me.

His stare chilled my veins and forcibly shook fortifications around my fragile mind. My instinct was overcome by the need to search for something that was missing. Peeking through a few parted strands of hair, I could see him eyeing me, a confused look distracting his mouth from his smirk. For a brief moment we beheld one another with curiosity and an urgency to understand one another.