I'm Not a Whore, I'm Just a Leech

The regular clicking of my heels rings out in the deserted corridors as I follow the tall figure of James Hatty up to the library. Due to my regular visits to the place, I have seen Hatty go up there every Thursday after school since the start of the year. His jeans don’t quite reach his heels as he walks and everytime he takes a step the pale skin of his ankle is exposed hinting at either a recent growth spurt or a lack of money to buy new ones. His tattered school bag is covered in drawings and doodlings.

He seems unaware of my presence behind him, though I have taken no measure to conceal myself from him. His carefree walk and the swinging of his arms gives me the impression that his thoughts are focused elsewhere than the dreary corridor we are walking through.

As he ascends the stairs to the library, I deposit my bag by the tapestry of a hunt in the Middle Ages, take a selection of books out and readjust my crimson red and jet black hair. I tug my shirt down to expose a little of the skin on my chest.

Notes