The walls of the History classroom were painted a dim olive colour, and upon their faces hung uninspiring posters of British politicians, and the methods by which lobotomy procedures were performed in the 1930s. I sat in my plastic chair, the munificent cushion below my buttocks providing ample luxury for the hour, my hair hiding my eyes, black lace sleeves embracing my pallid arms; an unfashionable and distinctly uninteresting look, a reflection of my putrid insides, with just the faintest sense of irony.
Directly opposite me sat a girl whom my heart instantly loved, her porcelain skin reflected the muted light inside the room and her full red lips appeared to have been crafted for the utmost purpose of eternal love. Her dark hair was always pinned back, and her shoes, so delicate, lay tied in an intricate pattern. She had tiny tattoos upon her wrist and neck, and where else I could only have imagined, they weaved themselves all over her tiny frame, a map leading fingers over her delicate skin to the most clandestine parts of her body. She could not look at me, but sometimes she would close her eyes and tremble, as though she knew my gaze was upon her. The circular layout of the classroom desks cursed me to steal my glances at only auspicious moments, lest others might be able to see my adoration and loathing, though when she chose to look up towards where I sat and skimmed her eyes along my table to pass between my neighbours to the right and left, never quite meeting my eyes, my body ached with longing and my heart dissolved in unrelenting fury.
The tutor’s warming drone wrapped around my spine, and the sugar in the fluid within my eyes encouraged them to seal. In these moments I would often find myself sat beside her, allowing her perfume to settle inside my nose. Her skin, too exquisite to be touched, would splinter as I dragged my blade across her chest. She could not bear to look at me as I unlaced those beautiful shoes and her shirt, and ran my hands over her collar bones. My hands traced along her shoulders and down slender arms, to the tips of perfectly manicured finger nails. I intertwined my fingers with hers- my heart melting from her distinct scent, a devastating fusion of fear and sweetness- and slowly began to pull.
She closed her eyes and cried shallowly from the pain, a noise of angst, and one which shattered her image of beauty and solemnity. Enraged I resumed my task of dislocating her arms from her shoulders; purely beautiful tears ran down her cheeks and merged with her make up, great swathes of grey staining her face as her bones broke beneath my fingers. With the most implausible squelching noise her arms were finally severed from their sockets, endlessly yawning hollows of red making up the space where her arms used to be. We say nothing of course, too overcome by her dismantling, though I somehow find the strength to place my lips upon hers, her blood coursing down my torso, and her own.
I awake and find that the class has finished, and the girl has bid me adieu. I sit quietly as she leaves through the door and simultaneously runs through my head, armless and bleeding, each action conducted with equal swiftness. I attempt to follow but am blocked by my fellow classmates who fall in my way. I did not know her name, though I had kissed her goodnight a thousand times.