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That Night

Tags: mystery, magic

I wrote this at around 2am and 2am me loves it. I'll probably hate 2am me in the morning.

I remember that I'd been called to Mr Lockwood's office. 11pm seemed an odd time, but I assumed it must've been urgent. I bumped into Matthias Sandström on the way. Apparently he'd been summoned too. 

He said I was an idiot for not putting a coat on, and he gave me his. The fabric was thin, and wasn't really much help, but I suppose my arms weren't bare anymore. His keys and phone were in his pockets, he said, so I'd better not let them fall out.

I knew that he was just trying to seem intimidating. The pockets were deep. He'd been wearing that jacket on the day I first arrived, and a little grey kitten had been sitting in the pocket. He didn't scare me at all, and I think he knew that.

Unfortunately, there hadn't been a kitten in the pocket on that night.


He'd stopped suddenly on the way, grabbing my sleeve. Or his sleeve, rather. He decided that we were taking a detour. Someone had left one of the lights on in the library, and he was the only student with a key. He must have not noticed when he locked up, he said, which was weird, because he'd never been the forgetful sort. But ever since we all woke up the other day, he'd been forgetting things,and it was annoying. Then he half smiled, half grimaced as he realised he'd let his grumpy façade slip a little. I pretended not to notice. I thought I'd give him a win, just this once. 

He said I had to go with him, because I was wearing his jacket, and had all his stuff in the pockets. I didn't question it. I didn't mind. I wasn't particularly looking forward to being questioned by Mr Lockwood at that time of night anyway.

We got to the library doors, and he reached into the pocket on my left to retrieve his keys. The light was dull, so he squinted to find the right one.

He really was beautiful, at least when he was focused on something other than being contrary. I understood why all the other girls would swoon over him. All his facial features were perfect, his cheekbones strong, and his hair was dyed a whitish silver, the roots growing back dark brown. And while I couldn't see his emerald eyes in the limited light, I was certain that they'd probably managed to break a few hearts all on their own, even with that huge scar cutting through the left one. 

He pushed the door open and froze. He asked if I'd heard anything, but I hadn't. Naturally, I'd been too busy studying his near-perfect face, though I wasn't going to say that.  He cautiously stepped inside the library, and I followed.

I had all his stuff in his pockets, after all.

His arm was outstretched, keeping me a step behind him. I thought he was just trying to intimidate me further. 

He froze again. His voice was barely a whisper, but in the silence of the library at night, I heard it loud and clear. 

None of the lights are on. 

 

I remember feeling uneasy. Had somebody turned the light off before us? That quickly? Or had someone been in the library all this time? 

My voice was shaky when I tried to tell him that he probably got the windows confused, that the light must've been on in a different room. He shushed me, his hand closing around my wrist, through his jacket. 

We cautiously turned the corner. I could just about make out the trio of steps up to what was, during the day, the quieter part of the room. The corner I'd usually retreat to, beside the huge painting of the ocean, a little lighthouse in the distance.

He stepped in front of me. He didn't need to stick his arm out to keep me back this time, though his grip on my wrist had tightened considerably.

I'd always liked the painting. It had always looked like a clear summer day.

Then why was there a beacon of light shining from the lighthouse in the painting?

And why was that light blinding, and suddenly shining directly towards us?

I could've sworn I could hear the crashing of  ocean waves in a storm at that point.

But that would be ridiculous.

Almost as ridiculous as the feeling of the wind from that same storm whipping violently around us, pulling books from the shelves.

My wrist was tingling from the tightness of his grip as we turned to run. 


Maybe we shouldn't have gone that close. 

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