Again.
The image before me shimmers, and suddenly I’m looking at Belle as a puppy, racing toward that same pot, with another goose sitting on top of a clutch of eggs in the late March sun.
My throat clogs with tears. These tiny memories, mere moments amid the years—the decades—missing from my life give me hope that one day, I’ll be something more than a shadow of who I’m supposed to be.
I blink, and my huge, loyal dog is back, running from one end of the deck to the other, but never once venturing onto the lawn.
Turning my focus to the drafting table, my eyes land on the haunting image I drew days ago. It sucks all the oxygen from the air. That big, empty space in the center terrifies me.
I can’t be in here with that. And the walls are too bright. Too loud. Too…unfamiliar. The room doesn’t feel like mine anymore. It belongs to someone else. Someone I fear I’ll never know.
But the need to draw is like an itch under my skin. My fingers ache to hold a pencil. To give shape to all these brief, dark flashes I’ve been shoving down under the few fragments of happy memories I’ve found with AJ and Belle.
They won’t stay buried forever. Worse, they’ll claw and poke and scratch until they finally slice me open. Then they’ll laugh as I bleed.
“…a hundred small cuts before the end…”
The man’s voice is so clear, I whirl around and almost topple over. My heart hammers against my ribs. I’m alone. The only sound breaking the silence is the steady thump of AJ’s feet hitting the treadmill. Even Belle’s stopped barking.
Scooping up my sketchpad, pencil, eraser, and blending sticks, I retreat back to the living room.
The couch is safer. The cushions welcome me, and I tuck my legs to the side so I can balance the sketch pad on my thighs. Belle trots into the room, bringing a whiff of fresh air with her.
“Come here, sweetie.” I pat the spot next to me. She has to try three times before she finds just the right position, but finally settles with an undignified groan.
With her at my side, I can be braver. At least that’s what I tell myself as I touch the tip of the pencil to the pad.
Lines and curves stretch across the page without much thought. An oval. Too wide, too thick. Rough shapes that defy explanation. I add texture. Depth. Blend from dark to light. An arm? No. Horns?
The harder I try, the more the images blur, almost melting into one another. It’s all too much. Too…wrong.
Turning the page, I try again. Another fragment claws its way free. This one a rectangle, shaded until the weight of it presses against my chest. A book? My nails dig into the eraser as I drag a white scar through the center.
More lines. Pages and pages. So many, I have to stop and shake the blood back into my fingers.
Words whisper in the background, but I can’t—I won’t—hear them. I scratch the pencil across the page so hard, it tears.
One more. I’ll try one more. Because right now, the image in my head is so clear, it might as well be hanging in front of me.
My heartbeat thrums in my temples. My stomach twists, bile burning my tongue, and for a second, I worry I’m about to throw up all over the couch. But I swallow hard and flip to a fresh page.
Two tall beams, thick and rough, with a bowed line between them. String? A cable? A chain? I can’t tell. But the lantern dangling from whatever it is? That I’m sure of.
The metal housing takes shape first. The coil at the top. Three loops. Wound from left to right, top to bottom. Six glass panes. Shading reveals the bevel at the edges. The wick is too tall. The flame is too bright. It hurts my eyes, but I don’t stop. It’s almost right. Almost done. On the base, there’s a symbol. I can’t see it. Can’t commit it to the page.
My hand spasms, and the pencil tumbles from my fingers.
“Shit.”
AJ clears his throat. I yelp, and the sketchbook hits the floor.
“God, I’m sorry, darlin’. I didn’t mean…” He stands a few feet away, his face sweaty and flushed, with a towel looped around his neck. “That drawin’ was pretty clear. Mind if I take a look?”
“I don’t want to remember,” I whisper.
His eyes soften. His voice does too. “I know. But tomorrow, the world’s gonna find out you’re alive. After that…”
“The people who took me could try again.” I lean down, pick up the sketchpad, and clutch it to my chest.
