Illegal

  She bites her lips whenever she feels like this. Lightly and firmly, she bites them, and the corner of her mouth talks her naively pale cheek into drawing smile-lines around her eye, until the entire left half of her face softly argues with her stubbornly serious right half - she is simply not moving; not moving at all.

  The schoolyard was filled with the same tired and tiresome faces, humorously eager and utterly desperate to either hide from, or rip the eyes of the teachers, colleagues or whoever agreed to acknowledge their superiority in.. well, in whatever. And the 'whatever' list held an impressive diversity, as any respectable-school-whatever list should display; from the unimaginably high grades and academic achievements to the newest and most inspired choice of shoes, girlfriends, mascara, soap operas, video games, boyfriends and, of course, the forever-disputable hair-pins. 

  Life truly is wonderful in a constantly over and under-rated small-town high school, especially since pressure is ignored and served with the utmost naivety. And in front of anything served with that same utmost naivety, she bites her lips, lightly and firmly, and gets down to work. Two more years - such a rush and such a pity - and she had no well-built idea, nor the foundation of a plan; she just had a sketch which she carries in her head, taped on her mind, only backwards, so it's all pretty clear and pretty fuzzy at the same time. But that's alright, she wouldn't need a plan anyway; she'd just bite her lips and trust her gut, like then.

  Sitting on the cold, faded stairs at the entrance of the school, she was staring at them: the herd of attackers, the fierce predators spying on errors, devouring hopes and sharpening their claws on every living soul within the sacred territory of high school - the respected group of teachers; three of them, the Three Charmed Ones: Physics, History, and Chemistry - Gerda, Marvin, and Sue. She'd soon be joining their absolutist crew and enjoying their company at the teachers' meeting. It was a shame she wasn't wearing her comfy, vintage, reddish parka, with Indian patterns smelling of the chocolate cake spilled the day before. She always thought that parka held some nerve for when she was out of it and in desperate need ( not that it happened too often). But she didn't have it, so she thought of it, bit her lips, and went into the teachers' room.

  The hot, oppressive air wouldn't have been a problem, and she would have gladly ignored the intense aftershave and cheap perfume stench, if it wasn't for the dull, constipated faces of her fellow teachers.

  "This child,"said Marvin through indignant downpours of spit and gestures, "is incorrigible! He wears black all the time and shamelessly dark make-up, and he only participates in class when he thinks he has something brilliantly ironic to say to show his contempt towards anything living, or.. well, myself. I am sure it's personal!"

  "Horrible.." whispered Gerda.

  Chemistry remained quiet.

  "Imagine that," continued Marvin even more agitated "he even pretended to give me a lesson on Gothic style in literature and architecture! Now, isn't he a work of art?!"

  She frowned and approached the rain-man teacher:

  "He surely sounds like a work of art, but not as you'd like to make him." she said smiling condescendingly.

  "Sorry? Have we met?"

  "Not quite. I am the new English teacher."

  "Ah, yes. Do you know this pupil I speak about?"

  "I might know him, but that's horribly relative, since you can't know someone to the deepest, as you can't know anything with total certainty. Not even mathematics. Not even works of art."

  "Funny. The boy served me that line once."

 

     

                                                          *



  The lights in the house at no. 24 are never on. Some candles seem to glow from time to time on the kitchen windowpane. The house itself doesn't inspire much light either, with its grey walls, utterly black roof and doors, and reddish front-door stairs.

  He unlocked the ancient, heavy, rusty lock and opened the door to the gloom of the hallway. A few fingers of evening disturbed the impassibility of his black clothes and shamelessly dark make-up.

  He welcomed her with a kiss and closed the door behind them. They were simply not moving, not moving at all. In the blur of the evening, hidden and dark, he lightly and firmly bit her lower lip.