Page 24 of Breaking Isolde
There’s only one thing left now: take her, break her, make her mine.
I wander, not really heading anywhere. The campus is dead quiet, even for this hour and Isolde should be sleeping by now. The wind slaps at the windows, pushing dry leaves in loops around the lanterns. I light a cigarette and watch the end burn down to ash. When I finish, I flick it into the grass.
From here, I can see the chapel. The light inside is on, pale and watery through the stained glass. I walk that way, boots crunching on gravel. I don’t bother to hide.
She’s there again, just inside the door, arms crossed tight. She’s changed clothes—a sweater and jeans, hair tied back in a knot—but she hasn’t lost any of the edge. She sees me and sets her jaw.
“You going to stalk me everywhere now?” she says. “I need my notebook, pimple dick.”
“Just doing my rounds.”
Pimple dick? The fuck?
She scoffs. “Bullshit.”
“Believe what you want.”
She steps closer, eyes locked on mine. “You think you can scare me into running? You’re wrong.”
“I hope I am.”
She glances away, then back. “Why me?”
I shrug. “Luck of the draw.”
She laughs, bitter. “No. That’s not it.”
I let the silence hang. There’s nothing left to say.
She reaches out, snatches her notebook from my hand. “Next time you want to kiss me, ask.”
I grin. “You’d say yes?”
She flushes, then stalks away, hips swinging with more confidence than she probably feels. Then she stops and turns. “I want my fucking notebook back. Put it on the steps of Archer House or I’ll tell everyone you have a micro-dick.”
“No one will believe you.”
“Why? Fucked that many girls?”
I smirk, “Does that bother you?”
“Oh fuck off.”
I watch her go. I want to call after her, to say that I’m sorry, or that I can’t help it, or that none of this is what I wanted. But the words are dead before they hit my tongue.
I stand in the cold for a long time, letting the air chew through my coat and settle in my bones.
Walking away from the chapel, hands in my pockets, head bowed, I fight against the tidal wave of memories trying to surface. In a week, everything will be different. For her, for me, for the ghosts in the glass.
I light another cigarette and watch the tip burn. I wonder if she’s thinking about me the way I’m thinking about her.
I hope so.
Chapter 5: Isolde
MidnightatWestpointiswhen the building makes its true noise. None of the fake cordiality, no bright light, no secondhand perfume polluting the hallways. Just the sound of ancient stone settling, and the omnipresent hush of ambition, like a black hole pulling at your throat. The Administration Building is a blacker black than the rest. It’s the only place I’ve ever seen where even the security lights look afraid to turn on.
My hands don’t shake when I pick the lock, but my heart hammers so loud I half expect the motion sensor to catch the throb. The door handle is greasy, worn down to bare metal at the edges, the kind of thing that makes you want to bleach your hand even before you touch it. I wedge my boot against the frame, slip the pick into the keyway, and listen for the pins to fall. Each clickis a tiny permission slip. Each breath in my lungs is borrowed time.
