Title: What he held in the palm of his hands
by Sophie from Hampshire and Isle of Wight | in writing, fiction
My heartbeat seemed to feel the expansive space between us, a loud, pulsating beat that destroyed any elusion of peace or tranquillity that we may have construed for ourselves.
No. That I may have construed for myself. He hardly cared about peace and tranquillity.
A slow smile spread across his face, an irresistible, terrifying smile.
"Just come here," he crooned, holding his palm towards me. "Just come here, and let me touch your pretty face"
His hand, so corpselike in its pallor mere moments before, began to glow a hot, burning red, the edges of his hand shifting slightly, as though he was having trouble holding his form, having trouble containing the desire that I knew burned within him to step forward and press his hand to my face.
To step forward and kill me.
Desperately, I searched for a small seed of bravery, the tiniest ledge of courage I could scrabble on to, to try and regain my footing in this insane rollercoaster of emotions and revelations.
But courage was not to be my gift, and neither were miracles, or luck. The only thing I had was the fact that the blindfold had suddenly been lifted from my eyes, and I realised something, something so plain, so simple, that I should have seen it all along.
Well, if I couldn't settle for bravery, I'd have to settle for this realisation.
I opened my lips, and said;
"You aren't human".
Philip Pullman, Anthony Horowitz, and Eoin Colfer inspired me; in this case, anyway.
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