I pause for a moment before asking a somewhat off-topic question. “Ellic?”

            “Yeah, what?”

            “Why hasn’t Jesus come back yet, if he’s supposed to? It’s been over two and a half thousand years.” I’ve been thinking about it quite a bit, and he seems the type to know.

            He thinks for a minute then replies, “I don’t know for sure, but… you know how sometimes in class if people are talking the teacher will just sit and wait until they notice and calm down?” I nod. “Well, maybe he’s waiting for us to notice. For us to calm down a bit. Slow down and really appreciate the life he’s given us. But we can’t do that now, not at this moment. We need a lot of fixing.”

            A silence descends between us as we both grow pensive. I’d like to see a miracle, and that’s what it’d be if the human race were fixed.

            “Do you think that could ever happen?” I whisper, a bit afraid of what he’ll tell me.

            Without hesitation, he answers with the quote I’d read in the Bible the day before. “With God, all things are possible.”

            The day passes quickly between us. He shows me around the library and opens up a whole new world to me. Harry Potter. Wuthering Heights. Dante. I begin to write out a list of all that I intend to read, and in what order.

            It’s evening before I am ready. Ellic and I read out another scene from The Tempest and promptly retire to bed.

 
                                  (font here was "Nosferatu")

 In the dream, there was a man. He was holding her to the ground in a small room with dirt floors, a thin 7-inch dagger tapering down to her chest. My body shook with adrenaline, desperate to protect her; there was nothing I could do. I was chained to the rough, moldy, damp stone walls.

 “Don’t hurt her,” I spoke hoarsely. It was the best I could manage at the moment. He ever so slightly pressed the blade against her, drawing just a bit of blood. She bit her lip, trying so hard not to cry out. “Please!” I yelled. “I’ll do anything. Anything you want. Don’t kill her. Please.”

 He paused, watching me. “I don’t need anything from you, my friend. I only want her. Dead.” I couldn’t  stop shaking; there was absolutely no way I was going to let her die. I closed my eyes, summoning every drop of energy and willpower in my body, and tore my hand from the chain. I had to have snapped a few bones, but I was so pumped with adrenaline that I didn’t even notice at the time. I threw myself at him; she screamed as the blade tore across her chest, but I knew it wouldn’t  even be close to killing her. I struggled viciously with her would-be killer, trying to wrest the blade from his grasp. Pain seared at the right side of my neck and I felt  blood trickling down. It’s not  fatal, I told myself. But I wasn’t sure. Despite fighting with a broken hand, I managed to pull the knife from him, rolling off  and to the side before spinning around to drive it straight through the hollow at the base of his throat. He sputtered for a few seconds, shock in his eyes.

 I dragged myself to my feet, leaving him to die, and stumbled over to where she was sitting, her arms wrapped around her knees. I sat down beside her and pulled her close, wanting her to feel safe. But I was getting dizzy. The blood flow from my neck was slow but  steady.

 I felt myself thrown backward, landing hard on the ground. She screamed as he pinned her down and plunged the knife straight into her heart.

                                  (end "Nosferatu")

            When I wake up, I don’t even open my eyes. I’m too scared of what I might see. It takes me a little while to manage to convince myself it was a dream. As soon as I find the will to lift my eyelids, I pull on a shirt and go to check on Sybil.

            She’s still asleep, which isn’t surprising – so is the sun. She stirs, her right arm falling limp to the side. My lips part gently as the moonlight falls to the thick rows of scars along the inside of her forearms. My heart skips a beat, imagining what it must have been like. When I came here, to her school, I was just following instinct. Somehow I just knew I had to go. But I’d never been in a school; I’d been living in this old library all my life.

            Imagining her wincing, trying not to cry while they did this to her…. I turn and run from the room, downstairs, to the kitchen. I lean down over the sink and turn on the faucet. Cold water streams out, and I splash it onto my face, trying to shake myself out of my pained daze. My dream, her arms, it’s just too much. People being hurt has always done this to me – affected me more than it should have, even as a person who can feel emotions.

            I look in the mirror, running a hand through my hair, thoroughly stressed out. This has to stop. I’ll do anything to bring this to an end.

            He’s already downstairs when I get down in the morning. I don’t think he notices me when I come in; he’s leaning over the sink looking anxious and upset. For a minute or so I debate with myself between staying to comfort him and giving him some alone time.

            “You can come in, Sybil. Everything here is yours as much as it is mine,” he says. I step into the dim room, the sun just barely rising.

            “What’s wrong?” I ask, moving to stand behind him. He turns around slowly, and reaches out to hold my arm.

         "I don't like the idea of them hurting you. Abusing you," he tells me softly. I swallow. I'd never really thought of it as abuse... but it was.