Page 20 of Shadowed With Fear

Ethan Cochrane stands there, hands to his face, with watery eyes, glaring at me.

“Yeah, what the hell? Ever heard of announcing yourself. Jesus Christ.” My hand grips my chest as my breathing returns to normal. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was you.”

He just shakes his head, looking at his hands I guess to see if he’s bleeding.

“No, no. You’re right. I’m sorry. I thought you would have heard me coming up behind you.”

He wipes at the tears on his cheeks, sniffing, before throwing me a small apologetic smile. “You’re Dahlia, yes?”

I nod. “I’m sorry, again. I’m…a bit jumpy today.”

“It’s alright, I’m sorry too. I was wanting to ask you if you had thought any about the portfolio?” Ethan looks at me, intrigued, but my gut sinks.

Shit.

Awkwardly, I sigh, rubbing at my collar bone, “No, actually. I haven’t yet. I have a few possibilities, but nothing really in stone just yet. It was a, uh— “I look around, before mumbling, “eventful weekend. I got a little sidetracked.”

Ethan shrugs, still smiling. “That’s alright. I just thought I would ask. You were pretty much the only person that seemed like they were genuinely interested in the project, so I thought I would pick your brain. You have a lot of potential.” His look changes slightly. The friendliness he projected shifts into something a little more aggressive, predatory. “Potential for a lot of great things.”

“Uh, thanks, I guess.” I coughed a little, turning back to the door. “Should we— “I nod for him to go first. He takes a step holding the door open.

“Ladies,” he bows his head, smirking at me. I shuffled past him quickly muttering a thank you, before finding an open seat by the aisle. Last week I got the shit end of the deal and was stuck in the middle of the crowd. Not again.

Professor Logan begins today’s lecture on the fundamentals of digital photography, and I tune him out. Not because I’m uninterested but because Grayson gave me a very thorough run down on DSLRs about four years ago. The three-hour tutorial has been burned into my brain. I can never get those hours back sadly.

I just stare at the large screen behind the professor and think. It seems I have been doing a lot of that lately. I can see Issac a few rows ahead of me, so I think of him, and how Liz is feeling after her little meltdown.

I think of this class and how lucky I am to be a student under Professor Logan.

I think of what Ethan said about my potential. And despite it being a little creepy how he said it, he kind of struck a chord.

I’ve been lacking on reaching that full potential. It’s changing though. I can feel it just as strong and as real as the cold eyes boring into my back what feels like every second of the day.

That part of me that I have kept hidden has been scratching to come out for so long that I often wonder if I’ve imagined it, and this is truly the real me. That somewhere along the lines I’ve just lost that spark that is uniquely my own.

When did I start to care about what others thought of me? Or held back and shied away from standing up for myself? Growing up with a brother his four best friends taught me to not take shit. I know I can dish it as good as I can take it, but the fire is gone.

After this weekend, though, I can’t just give up again.

Reaching into my bag, I pull out a notebook, opening it to a fresh sheet of paper. And I begin to make a list.

By the end of the lecture the page is full, and I feel like it’s the beginning of a new era. Although many believe fall is the season where endings begin, I beg to differ. I thrive when the cold begins to settle, and death is pertinent in the air.

Armed with my bag, my kick ass combat boots, and the promise of change, I walk out of the hall with a grin wide across my face.

In my hand is my list, my guide, and scrawled across the top:

Getting My Shit Together

* * *

“Jennifer called.”

I groan. Throwing my bags in the floor I walk through the hall to the kitchen finding Brahm slumped over a bunch of work papers. He has a pencil tucked in his ear and he’s still wearing his flannel pajama pants and an old hoodie from when he played baseball.

“What did she want?” Disdain can’t be hidden. Brahm cracks a slight smile, eyes lifting to me. He looks over my outfit, the smile falling to a slight frown.

“What in God’s name are you wearing D?”