this is about a girl who experiences things that makes her realise the fragility of life, and things about death people shouldn't have to know. it's about love and loss and seeing the dead. the title is only a working title because titles restrict me. i'll post this, and if you like it i'll post more; i don't want to be arrogant and assume you want the whole shebang. i hope you enjoy.
He was there; again. Inevitably, I began to wrap a strand of hair around my finger, bright pepper-red against soft, pale white.
What was he doing?
Every day, for the past few weeks, he’d been there. At first, I’d thought nothing of it, but after a week of watching him sit, stand, or pace in the alley that was directly outside my window, I’d begun to find it creepy. He never did anything – just sat there, never phoning anyone, not even listening to music, not reading, nothing; he just sat there, for hours and hours on end, until it was too dark for me to see him.
“Ow,” I hissed, glancing down at the couple of hairs I’d accidentally pulled out. I sighed, ran a hand through my hair, and glanced back outside.
He was gone.
Hastily, I fidgeted with the stiff latch on my window, eventually managing to swing it open. I stuck my entire torso outside, ignoring the chilled air that immediately smacked into me, and peered back down into the little alley, searching for him; that tall, lean figure, with the shaggy dark hair and the pale skin. After a few minutes, I was starting to panic, but then I saw him again, lit up softly by a flickering street-light. He stood at the far end of the alley, nearly at the exit, his hands thrust into his pockets, his face turned upwards, towards the sky.
No; towards my building. Towards me.
Our eyes connected, and I found my eyes growing wide with mingled curiosity and fear. Something very close to adrenalin, but so much better and worse at the same time, surged through me. My fingertips began to burn, and I leaned dangerously far outside the window. My heart beat an irregular rhythm inside my ribcage, slamming so hard against my bones that I was afraid my heart would propel me off the edge.
Then, as a rush of sanity jolted through me, I shoved myself back inside my room, heaved my window shut, and turned the key in the lock with shaking fingers.
“Daya?” I heard a voice behind me say. I span around, calming only a little when I saw it was just the tall, scrawny figure of my brother. “You okay?”
“Look,” I said, hating the way my voice shook, pointing outside my window, straight at him. He was still there, still staring at us, illuminated by the street-light he’d stepped into. I shuddered.
“What?” Zack asked me with bemusement. “What is it?”
“That guy has been there for weeks, just there, doing nothing. Weeks and weeks, just staring at us and it’s freaking me out,” I gabbled, hugging myself, waiting for him to pull me into his arms and tell me everything was going to be okay, like big brothers should.
“In the street-light. Over there,” I pointed again, turning Zack in the right direction.
“I don’t see anyone, Daya. Are you feeling okay?”
I was about to argue my case, when I saw something, something that made my heart clench.
The figure in the streetlight shook his head at me.