Girl made of Beast

The End

I stared at the open document, cursor blinking in rhythm. I sigh frustrated, and rub my hands over my face. I stretch the skin down, looking around the cafe. It wasn't too busy, regular cafe of the door swinging open and closed. The main road outside buzzed with cars, but there was no great traffic.

It was your average Thursday, a bit past noon. I'd been relieved of psychology class at campus, handing in our reports. It wasn't such a formal chart, but a fiction short story about independence. The idea was to focus on future subjects that had too much liberty. For patients that felt they didn't need treatment, or were too good for it. Felt as though they were doing just fine, and would try to trick us out of helping them. I thought of my own time spent this last month on the few drafts. About the girl too independent for her own good. How would I help such a character? Would she say "Yes sir," and "No sir," leaving me to think her submissive and weak. "I'm fine sir."

I groan as the sunlight from under the roof hits me square in the eyes, casting my attention back to the pacing cursor. A small hum escapes my throat at the thought of my wrecked shades.

Within, I swear I see the shine of opal eyes.

I glance into the black space of the laptop, the reflection mirroring me. My eyes were as plain and dull as ever, resting levelly. I glance back at my most recent entry, the last chapter not a part of the assignment I'd handed in. The words haunted my head, sending me in a daze. I spent my morning paranoid and neurotic, double checking every reflection and tint of blonde on the streets. The hallucination, or vivid imagination was not normal. Normal people don't yell at the air and actually hear a response.

A figment of your imagination.

I knew that. I'd been writing the character up for weeks. What got me was her own choice of words, what I didn't write appeared in my apartment.

But if I'm not real, where is the beast coming from? It can only come from one person.

But even then, a figment of my imagination is controlled by the back of my mind, her words dripping with my ideas. The beast couldn't be in me, it was in the character. I created the character! Again though, could only a beast come up with such a thing?

I can't believe I stepped on my sunglasses. I actually had to squint outside, blinking ten times a damn second. What got into me? I was nothing like the beast. Yeah, maybe I pulled a few real life events into the writing to make it possible, but the beast couldn't be in me. The delusion occurred early this morning, leaving me to hit my head over it. All of class, all of now. I've been writing every single second I can remember about it. 'The Fight', I titled it.

The door chimed open again, but I didn't look up. The last sentenced seemed to stand out at me, haunting me. It couldn't be. I couldn't be. Opal eyes? Shrieking voice? Broken sunglasses? It must of been due to my exhaustion, I haven't slept much scrambling my brain for ideas. Six-six-sixteen!

"Yes sir, thank you." The small, unreal voice rang across the room.

Suddenly everything stopped, and I picked at the cuticle along my thumb with my index finder. Easy, absent minded stress.

"I'm fine, yourself?" Airy laugh.

Slowly, as no one else moved, I dreadfully lifted my eyes above the corner of the screen to see. Nothing seemed to move, or catch as much attention as the plump pink of her lips. I imagined the blood dripping from their edge, fragile hands held close to her mouth. My head felt dizzy but I didn't dare give it a shake as the blood vanished.

"No sir, one is fine." I forgot to breathe at it's angelic rhythm.

The flaxen haired girl, there she stood. Pageant smile to the worker, pink nails chipped as she anxiously peels them away. Hair to her shoulders, slope of her nose just as imagined.

I shook my head, but she didn't go away. I'm sure I looked like a predator, crouched into my screen, muttering to myself and watching her dangerously. But who was she, and why was she here? I shake my head again, rubbing my eyes. I'm so tired.

She's still there, leaning against the ledge, watching the man behind the counter make her order. I slam the laptop shut and slowly rise from my chair, stalking my prey. Will it run, will it flee? Is it real? Does the beast lurk behind opal eyes?

Steadying my breathing after forgetting to, I near her and drop my malicious intent. If she's fake, and people see a delusional man speaking with air, so be it. What else can happen in this city?

"Hi, I'm-