Rain

I wrote on my arms during class. Neat print on one arm, clumsy capitals on the other. My teacher droned on and on and on and on about economics and supply and demand and all manner of things I cared little for, but the class was required and I had to be there anyway. Black pen spelling out sentiments I never saw fit to voice, spiraling round and round and crowding in until the lines of text began to cross and I put the pen down with just the barest click. I had sleeves now, sleeves of ink that likely looked like fishnets from far away. Idly, I contemplate getting tattoos all up and down my arms. Black lines only, abstract shapes that I can color in myself; a living paint-by-numbers.

The bell rang, and I jumped. The class filtered out, surge trailing to trickle to splutter, and the teacher followed. I waited until she was out of sight before I slipped away. Down the hall and down one flight, two, out the door and into the grey, grey world.

Rain. Cold and soft. I pulled a small dustpan from my bag and scooped up the worms that struggled across the sidewalk. I skirted sodden leaves and put half-crushed worms out of their misery while I worked. Someone stopped to stare at me awhile before the rain slowly soaking his jacket forced him to move on. My own hooded sweatshirt grew heavy with water as I crouched at the side of the path to deposit my cargo in the grass.

Across the street, a dark shape caught my eye. I stood, squinting through the fog of the rain, and the shape shifted into the figure of a male. Dark hair blending smoothly into dark clothes into dark earth. Only his face and hands, stark white against the gloom of his body, were plainly visible. A sudden pang of unease hit and faded like the echo of a gong.

He caught my gaze with eyes that burned even at a distance and raised a hand in greeting. I raised the hand holding the dustpan. Then, blushing, I stowed it and gave him a proper wave.

And at that, without so much as a glance at his surroundings, the male stepped off of the curb and glided across the street. My heart leapt into my mouth and choked me, and I could no more warn him than I could pull him out of the path of the car.

It struck him, moved through him, and when it passed the boy shimmered and collapsed in a spray of black water.

The light changed, and I stumbled haltingly to the place of impact. Oiled water on the road and no sign of the boy. Except that when I moved to touch the place where he had been, something gleamed in the ankle-deep puddle at my feet.

I picked it up. A disc of volcanic glass on a silver chain. Obsidian, slicked with oil and water beading on its surface.

I slipped the chain around my neck and walked away.