It was late, and so the library’s lighting was dimmed. The furthest corners were shrouded in shadows; the spines on the books were difficult but not impossible to read. It was quiet too. There was a group of students at a long table studying together in hushed tones and near the back, Lazarus.
He was set up at a long table alone, his books spread around him like an island of pages, curled over his laptop. The light from the screen cast an eerie glow onto his slightly gray hued skin. His eyes were like deep pits, all black, and his dark hair fell into his face. He was dressed in a fitted black shirt, long sleeves gracing the length of his too long arms, black pants casing his too long legs. His fingers, so long they appeared to have an extra joint, rested, completely still, like spiders splayed over the keyboard.
Lazarus was made of the stuff from nightmares.
Literally. He was a bögge, a pookha, a bogeyman. And he was sitting in a library at a school slouched over a laptop writing a six page essay on the night terrors and the potential implications they have in pediatric mental health. He, a bogeyman, in all of his frightening glory, was sitting there studying at ten at night instead of haunting bad children’s dreams.
This wasn’t exactly where Lazarus pictured himself a year ago but it was exactly where he knew he needed to be. Now, if he could just complete a thought. Maybe it was the hour, ten wasn’t too late but he had been awake in the day time more often than his body was accustomed to this since arriving at the campus. He sighed and lifted his hands from the keyboard. Resting his elbows on the table edge, he brought his face down into his hands and groaned. “What am I doing here?” he muttered out loud in a tired, husky voice.
He was set up at a long table alone, his books spread around him like an island of pages, curled over his laptop. The light from the screen cast an eerie glow onto his slightly gray hued skin. His eyes were like deep pits, all black, and his dark hair fell into his face. He was dressed in a fitted black shirt, long sleeves gracing the length of his too long arms, black pants casing his too long legs. His fingers, so long they appeared to have an extra joint, rested, completely still, like spiders splayed over the keyboard.
Lazarus was made of the stuff from nightmares.
Literally. He was a bögge, a pookha, a bogeyman. And he was sitting in a library at a school slouched over a laptop writing a six page essay on the night terrors and the potential implications they have in pediatric mental health. He, a bogeyman, in all of his frightening glory, was sitting there studying at ten at night instead of haunting bad children’s dreams.
This wasn’t exactly where Lazarus pictured himself a year ago but it was exactly where he knew he needed to be. Now, if he could just complete a thought. Maybe it was the hour, ten wasn’t too late but he had been awake in the day time more often than his body was accustomed to this since arriving at the campus. He sighed and lifted his hands from the keyboard. Resting his elbows on the table edge, he brought his face down into his hands and groaned. “What am I doing here?” he muttered out loud in a tired, husky voice.
