The Indians of Bending Creek

This is a dumb fucking idea.

I don't know what made me go after her. Maybe it was the look in her eyes - the thought that something so beautiful would be incapable of causing pain. Unfortunately, as all poets and soldiers know; this is not true. Even the most breathtaking beautiful of roses have their thorns; and not a single one is capable of stopping the sun. In some tiny corner of my mind, I knew this.

But that tiny corner of my mind was given a back-seat pass as my feet hit the ground and I sprinted out of the room. I saw a flash of Jack's startled face. There was a deep-set worry in his eyes, as though he was frightened I might be going to hurt her. I wasn't, of course. I just wanted to talk.

... I think.

The wall light flashed by in a streak of white, and I stumbled to a stop at her door like a freight train. Reaching for the doorknob, I stopped myself. Straightening, I took a deep breath and smoothed my shirt down. Chewing gently on my bottom lip, I inhaled deeply through my nose and narrowed my eyes slightly.

Why am I doing this?

I mean, I barely knew her. Sure I might think I was in love with her, but let's be cut and dry - that was ridiculous. I had known this girl for ... a week. We had pulled off a couple pranks together. She had seemed pretty cool, she was beautiful in a way no other girl I had lain eyes on, and, yeah, maybe I could imagine some kind of vague something working out somewhere down the road - somewhat. But, why was I here? I mean, besides the fact that Jack was my friend and I had a double-vendetta against Anne for both of us ... what did it matter.

In that brief moment, I almost turned and walked away.

But the world is made of a million tiny 'almosts'. Each second, a billion people almost do something.

Raising my hand from the door handle, I hesitated and then rapped my knuckles three times against the heavy wood. The sound echoed shatteringly down the hallway, and was then absorbed into the thick carpeting and creme walls. Inside of the room, there was only silence. I thought I could hear a muffled buzzing, but it could be my imagination. After a moment, I knocked again. Slightly more forcefully, this time. I felt the wood reverberate under my finger joints.

"Go away." the voice was tiny and muffled through the thick wooden door - almost lost in the inaudible buzzing.

"Annabelle." I leaned forward and rested my forehead against the door. The white-painted surface was cold against my skin. "I-" my voice caught, "I would like a word ... if you would."

Brief silence.

"Go away."

A thousand tiny 'almost's.

"No."

There was another brief silence, which seemed to me to stretch for a very long time. An eternity of noiselessness, hidden from me - lying, out of reach, just beyond my fingers. And then the door opened. She stood there, silent still - clothed in a small white dress. Her blonde hair was tied up behind her, but a single curl fell past one emerald eye and made it look slightly like she was winking. Those eyes were deep-set, and etched slightly around the edges by red. If anything, the contrast only made them glow more startlingly green. Raising a hand, she unconsciously brushed the strand of hair out of her face and narrowed her eyes at me.

"Okay," she answered, her voice no more than a strangled whisper, "what the fuck do you want?"

"Answers." I suggest, more of a question than an answer itself. "Uh ... the truth, maybe. For you to tell me just what it is that you are ... want ... want with me ... all of the above?"

"Jack with you?" she asked, her eyes moving away from mine as she peeked out into the hallway behind me.

"No." I answered quietly, shaking my head. "I think he already knows those answers. Or thinks he does."

"So why don't you ask him?" her eyes moved back to my own, vibrant and piercing.

"Because ..." I hesitated,

Because he's bitter. Because you might have sexually attacked him. Because he's unstable. Because ...

"Because I'm afraid he might tell me the truth." I said. It sounded deep. What it meant - I'll be fucked if I know. Strangely, it seemed to work. The girl tilted her head to the side slightly, and then reached out one slim-fingered hand. Her tiny fingers grabbed my tie and pulled me into her room. As I stepped through the threshold, the door whispered shut behind me.

It was like stepping into a whole different world. I almost had to raise a hand to push my jaw closed - almost. It was set up to be a two-person dorm - identical to Jack and my own - but it was not. Potted plants were everywhere, overflowing from the bookshelf and tiny trees standing beside both desks. The right desk was covered in them, some overgrown almost to the floor. The windows were thrown open, and the gauzy white curtains rustled softly in the light wind. It was chill, inside. Music was playing, I realized. Something by the Arctic Monkeys, the record spinning slowly on a turntable beside the left bed. The covers are wild and unmade, the pillows stripped from the right bed and piled on the left until they resemble something like a WWII trench wall leaning against the corner.

Why'd You Only Call me When You're High, I'll recognize it years later.

I will remember three things about that moment forever; the music, the moonbeams, and the warmth of Annabelle-Lynne Farrah's lips.

There is part of me that wants to say I fought hard as she pushed her tiny frame against mine and leaned up to trap my lips with her own. Even years later, I will still like to think there was something I could have done to resist her. The truth is - there wasn't. One of her hands pressed into the fabric of my shirt, curving around my chest, the other wrapped in my tie. Her nose brushed my own as our lips pressed together. I could smell her light perfume; roses, and the sharp scent of permanent marker that clung to her. I could taste the cherry lip gloss on her, and I relaxed into her lips slowly. When she finally pulled her lips away from my own and let my tie slip out of her fingers, it was with agonizing slowness. Everything in me ached to grab her; to kiss her again, hard. But I do not.

She swallowed her smile, but a ghost of it still brushed the edges of her thin pink lips. I knew I was staring, but I couldn't help it.

"For a stalker, you're not so bad." she said coyly.

"That was the cheesiest thing I've ever heard." I said, untying my tongue from around my teeth enough to answer. My voice was hoarser than I wanted it to be. "It was also not what I came for."

She took a small step backward, but the smile remained.

"No, it wasn't." she whispered, "No. You, Scar, came because you wanted me to tell you I didn't touch Jackson Howrath. You want me to tell you I didn't fuck him ..." she trailed off, dragging her lower lip forward across her teeth and then smiling faintly, "But that, would be a lie. But I'll tell you what, Scar - I didn't rape him. Shit, I didn't even know it was him.

That's so worrying.

Followed immediately by:

Wait, what the fuck?!

"Come here, Scar." the young woman motioned to the bed with the tilt of her head. When I gave her a look of intense suspicion - and something that was definitely, completely, totally, not even a little bit hopeful (Yeah, I couldn't even convince myself of that) - she spread her hands and gave a hint of a smile. "No more surprises," she promised softly, her voice sincere. "You came for answers..." she blinked once, meaningfully. "So come get them."