He looks around. Empty. He shakes his head at himself and chuckles. What was he expecting, it was only 6:30am. He walks at a slightly quicker pace. The rest of class arrive at 7am and he was on cleanup duty. 

-----------------------------

"The snow slushes around my ploughing feet. I am the Moses to the parting sea of snow."

He closes his notebook as he reaches his classes door. He wipes his feet on the mat.

He slides open the door.

He stops.

A girl.

In the middle of the room.

Popsicle looks at her. He says nothing. The girl does nothing.

The chairs and tables are clambering amongst themselves by the sides of the room.

What had happened here? What is happening here?

Popsicles world begins to circle as he clocks the weirdness of the girl.

His world spins.

And spins.

And spins.

And stops. 

He opens his notebook.

The girl has not moved.

His eyes fixated on the girl.

"Red hair. Like the warm blood of a fresh satanist sacrifice."

His hands move. His eyes do not. 

"Glasses in her hand, they slightly sway back and forth...

...eyes covered by her somehow sinister drooping fringe. Her head is down."

The room is silent.

"Head down. Like a defeated... like a defeated-"

He stops.

"The girl begins to move. Her head slowly rises. I have not seen her eyes yet."

He feels his heart racing as he continues to scribble down what he can see.

"Her hair sways as her eyes come into view. She is looking not at me, she looks straight forward at the wall. Her eyes..."

Popsicle hold his pen tightly as he lifts it away from the page to closely examine her eyes.

He stands, stunned in horror.

For just a second, he cannot move.

Then his hand... as if it has its own will... it writes.

"Her eyes, green. Infesting strands of black-"

He pauses as he gasps.

"-they -the strands reach..."

...

"The pupils draw the strands- no the pupils draw the dark black VINES in towards the eyes epicentre, as if the pupils are a snake charmer, with these deathly vines being the foul, foul snakes. They slowly infest her... her eyes."

His hand moves rapidly. His eyes stay locked onto the ghastly girl in the room.

"Her head... turns. Her eyes now clearly in view... her eyes now completely black. The infested vines-"

His notebook flutters as it slams the floor.

Her eyes meet his.

His pen begins to crack as he tightens his grip.

He sees now exactly who this must be.

He says softly...

"S-Specky...-"

SHRILL!!!

------------------

The morning school bell screams.

Footsteps and chatter fill the school corridors. 

Locker doors are open and closed.

Squeaks of school shoes squeal in the air.

Popsicle stands. The room is empty. The chairs and tables are all in order. The room is bright.

The girl... is no more.

"Specky..."

He picks up his notebook as he comes to his senses.

He turns around.

A different girl. A girl who was... human.

"Errr... you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost bwahaha!!"

She playfully slaps his shoulder.

He is cold... inside and out.

"Who even are you? You in our class? We should hang out! You're facial expressions are funny!! Bwahaha", she cracks up as she wonders away to her chair.

Popsicle, still coming to his senses, looks around once more.

The things he saw... they were most definitely gone.

He gingerly walks over to his chair and sits down, laying his notebook on his table.

He looks at the page where he narrated what he witnessed-

....

There was nothing.

A squeak of a chair behind him.

He feels an intense urge to turn around.

A bag hitting the wooden floor.

He gives in.

He spins, a cold sweat rests on his forehead and slightly wets his ice blue hair.

She stares at him.

Specky.

A wry smirk on her lips. Her glasses rest loosely upon her nose. She raises her hand and in one swift movement, she pushes them firmly back on.

He spins back round, now with a muted panting.

What was that expression?

After what he saw this morning... does she know something?

How can he see such beauty one day, then such horror the next... and it be the same person?

...

He picks up his pen.

"A beautiful rose cannot also appear as a gut-wrenching thorn. A peculiar flower indeed..."

 

He sits back before again picking up his pen.

He writes in big letters on a fresh page...

"WHO IS THIS GIRL? WHAT IS GOING ON IN MY MIND?"

He closes his book, followed by his eyes and rests his head in his arms. 

Piggy boys punch was not the only thing hurting his head.