the technology as James had? And yet…it was always the super smart ones that went bad, wasn’t it? Those evil geniuses…
Now I knew I was taking things too far. My brain was spiralling out of control with ideas. I’d clearly spent too much time thinking about it. And too much of my free time reading science fiction.
I carried my armful of books down the rows, desperate to find something to distract myself. I found it on the very next aisle. Absolute chaos. Books strewn everywhere. The same section that it always was.
I clenched my teeth in frustration, completely putting my worries about InVizion aside, then marched down through the stacks and regarded the clutter in frustration. Who the hell kept doing this? It was as if a primary school had been let loose down this row and had proceeded to tear it apart.
It would take some time to fix.
I found myself complaining, but this was exactly the distraction I needed. A good while of work, which would allow me to vent my aggravation at something else besides my worry over the future.
Throwing myself at it, I forgot myself, and I let my mind wander, sending it in other directions, as far away from James’s dark den and the strange technology as possible. And stuffing books into their proper places and glancing at the spines, I found myself thinking of Ashley, of all people.
That recurring thought made me curse my loneliness. The aching desire for company and the physical need for another human being to be near me was—at times—debilitating. Awakening in the night from vivid dreams, hard and wanting for whatever fantasies were fast disappearing, those were the nights I hated.
I could usually push it away during the day. Forget about it, ignore it, pretend it didn’t exist. Pretend I wasn’t human; that I didn’t have desires; that I didn’t need anyone else in my life. That I’d somehow managed to put those instincts behind me.
It didn’t much work.
It was times like this, alone with my own thoughts, when I wasn’t guarding myself against them, that they’d hit. Those slightly inappropriate feelings would tiptoe into my head, those ones that couldn’t be truly considered, not unless I was in the shower.
I supposed I was the only one stopping myself. I was the one who shunned relationships these days. I was the one who couldn’t handle social settings, or perhaps—more truthfully—didn’t want to. I couldn’t let people into my world. If they got in, old hurts might be pulled up from where I’d so carefully tacked them down out of sight.
So why had I started talking to James? Yes, it was true; we did not delve too deeply into our lives—usually. James never asked, and if I ever did speak about myself, it was always on my own accord, when I’d forget myself. And for some damned reason, James always lulled me into a sense of security. Without prompting, without seemingly, questioning, on those rare occasions, he was able to have me open up and talk about myself more deeply or personally than anyone else.
I supposed that it was, perhaps, because I didn’t truly know him in our little text conversations. Talking to someone through the written word, waiting for the response, it had a type of private, almost intimate feel to it. Meeting James in the flesh had had a completely different effect on me. He had spoken to me as if we were good mates, been completely candid. He’d shown me things I imagined he hadn’t shown many. He’d acted as if he’d almost…trusted me.
I felt guilty, for when I’d met James, I felt wary, unsure of him, like he was a stranger, and not a man I’d spent the majority of my free time conversing with. I wasn’t sure which of our reactions had been the proper one.
I shook myself and pushed another book onto the shelf. I was just too damn confused. My decisions confused me. My thoughts confused me. I seemed to no longer be able to focus these days. I wondered if he was to blame, or if it was just my frazzled state of
Now I knew I was taking things too far. My brain was spiralling out of control with ideas. I’d clearly spent too much time thinking about it. And too much of my free time reading science fiction.
I carried my armful of books down the rows, desperate to find something to distract myself. I found it on the very next aisle. Absolute chaos. Books strewn everywhere. The same section that it always was.
I clenched my teeth in frustration, completely putting my worries about InVizion aside, then marched down through the stacks and regarded the clutter in frustration. Who the hell kept doing this? It was as if a primary school had been let loose down this row and had proceeded to tear it apart.
It would take some time to fix.
I found myself complaining, but this was exactly the distraction I needed. A good while of work, which would allow me to vent my aggravation at something else besides my worry over the future.
Throwing myself at it, I forgot myself, and I let my mind wander, sending it in other directions, as far away from James’s dark den and the strange technology as possible. And stuffing books into their proper places and glancing at the spines, I found myself thinking of Ashley, of all people.
That recurring thought made me curse my loneliness. The aching desire for company and the physical need for another human being to be near me was—at times—debilitating. Awakening in the night from vivid dreams, hard and wanting for whatever fantasies were fast disappearing, those were the nights I hated.
I could usually push it away during the day. Forget about it, ignore it, pretend it didn’t exist. Pretend I wasn’t human; that I didn’t have desires; that I didn’t need anyone else in my life. That I’d somehow managed to put those instincts behind me.
It didn’t much work.
It was times like this, alone with my own thoughts, when I wasn’t guarding myself against them, that they’d hit. Those slightly inappropriate feelings would tiptoe into my head, those ones that couldn’t be truly considered, not unless I was in the shower.
I supposed I was the only one stopping myself. I was the one who shunned relationships these days. I was the one who couldn’t handle social settings, or perhaps—more truthfully—didn’t want to. I couldn’t let people into my world. If they got in, old hurts might be pulled up from where I’d so carefully tacked them down out of sight.
So why had I started talking to James? Yes, it was true; we did not delve too deeply into our lives—usually. James never asked, and if I ever did speak about myself, it was always on my own accord, when I’d forget myself. And for some damned reason, James always lulled me into a sense of security. Without prompting, without seemingly, questioning, on those rare occasions, he was able to have me open up and talk about myself more deeply or personally than anyone else.
I supposed that it was, perhaps, because I didn’t truly know him in our little text conversations. Talking to someone through the written word, waiting for the response, it had a type of private, almost intimate feel to it. Meeting James in the flesh had had a completely different effect on me. He had spoken to me as if we were good mates, been completely candid. He’d shown me things I imagined he hadn’t shown many. He’d acted as if he’d almost…trusted me.
I felt guilty, for when I’d met James, I felt wary, unsure of him, like he was a stranger, and not a man I’d spent the majority of my free time conversing with. I wasn’t sure which of our reactions had been the proper one.
I shook myself and pushed another book onto the shelf. I was just too damn confused. My decisions confused me. My thoughts confused me. I seemed to no longer be able to focus these days. I wondered if he was to blame, or if it was just my frazzled state of
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