Evilangel
London River, Jane Wilde Pic(s)
The final bell had long since faded into the oppressive silence of the empty classroom, a hollow echo swallowed by the dusty scent of old paper and drying ink. A single beam of late afternoon sun, thick with swirling motes of dust, cut across the worn wooden floorboards and fell upon her, warming the thin fabric of her pleated skirt where it rested agat her thighs. Her fingers, pale and trembling slightly, traced the grain of the heavy desk, feeling every splinter and groove as a tiny, sharp testament to her solitude. The starched collar of her white blouse felt suddenly tight, a constriction around her throat with each shallow, nervous breath she drew. She could hear the deliberate, slow click of leather soles on the floorboards behind her, a sound that promised neither reprimand nor release, but something else entirely. A faint, clean scent of sandalwood and starched cotton filled the air as a shadow fell over her, cool and immense, blocking the sun’s warmth from her skin. The heat of a hand, not yet touching, hovered just above the nape of her neck, raising the fine hairs there into a state of electric anticipation. A single, warm drop of sweat traced a slow, deliberate path down the delicate curve of her spine, a secret journey beneath the confining layers of her uniform. In the profound quiet, the only sound was the frantic, rabbit-quick rhythm of her own heart, a frantic drumbeat agat her ribs that seemed to shake the very foundations of the room.
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