I fell silent.
She pointed to the journal in my hands. “I think you should read through it.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Just take it,” Aunt Vera said, a little impatient, “one day you might actually want to learn more about your mother.”
“I doubt it.”
“We’ll see.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The House on North Lane haunted my dreams, summoning me to wander down its dark halls once more.
My mother’s face, the Devil’s voice, the flames—every night was the same. When I woke, my mother’s journal called to me from under the bed, like a monster waiting to drag me down to Hell. I already had one Devil on my shoulder; I didn't need another.
School was an escapeanda prison. My studies forced the Devil to the back of my mind, but there was little I could do to avoid trouble when Alexander hunted me down like I was a deer grazing in the woods.
Sanctuary was found in an unlocked classroom inside the art block. There, amongst the smell of wet paint and wooden easels, I could melt into my artwork, safely hidden from those who tormented me.
I pushed open the door, gaze landing on a familiar figure standing in front of an easel. It was the chewing gum girl from my form room, the girl who competed with Alexander to answer every question leaving Mr Singh’s mouth. Her twinbraids were pulled back into a single ponytail, a golden stud on each ear. White earphones silenced my entry, the tangled cord disappearing into the pocket of her dark green blazer as she appraised the black canvas in front of her. A paintbrush dangled between her teeth; her eyebrows furrowed with dissatisfaction.
I hovered in the doorway, unsure whether to find another empty art room or reclaim my territory. She lifted her head before I could decide, her expression shifting from disapproval to confusion as her gaze darted between my bruised cheek and my swollen lip—a result of another scuffle with Alexander.
“Can I help you?” she asked, slowly removing her earphones.
I shook my head.
“You’re the new kid, right? Augustus…Saint?”
I nodded.
She set down the paint brush and scoffed. “You don’t look very saintly.”
“What does a saint look like?” I asked.
Her hands connected in prayer as she made a sound I assume was meant to resemble an angelic choir.
“I’ll consider being saintlier, then,” I mused.
She grinned. “I’m Ava.”
“Nice to meet you,” I nodded, gaze drifting toward the canvas. “What are you painting?”
“A nightmare I had last night.”
I squinted at the artwork. All I could see was black. “What’s the nightmare?”
“I am in a room. It’s dark…I can’t even see my own hand in front of my face,” she recounted. “I’m walking around for a while, trying to find a way out, but the room doesn’t seem to end. I am trapped. And there are…voices. Some are quiet, some are loud. They say such…cruel things.”
That doesn’t sound too bad.
“I can’t seem to paint just how terrifying it was to be trapped in the darkness,” she added with a sigh. “I’m painting what I saw but…it’s just this vast nothingness.”
Clearly a terrible artist, then.
My gaze remained locked on the canvas. “I see your problem.”
