Page 216 of Poison Vows

It’s an entire exhibit… of me.

Me reading a book with a perplexed expression on my face.

Me looking out the car window with flat eyes as if my mind is faraway.

In another, I’m tossing up flower petals watching them float away in the wind with a complicated look on my face.

The next one is of me lying on my back, gazing up the stars above Westbrook Blues.

Before I know it, I’m in the middle of the room, with my heart in my throat, my fingers itching because this is me from when I was a little girl… to me just a month ago, half-smiling, looking distant and preoccupied.

“Oh God,” I whisper.

Actually, the subject of each painting is in semi-profile.

Her face can’t be seen completely… but because each of these paintings are a very tangible, real memory in my mind, how can I not recognize myself?

The tight, coiled curly hair.

The pigtails I’d rock on a daily when I was eight years old through to ten years old.

The braids I tried at eleven years old.

The short hair I got after I cut my hair just after Samuel and I had to leave Westbrook Blues when I was thirteen…

It’s all there, leaving no doubt that the girl in these drawings, these highly detailed paintings… is me.

I turn around like a mouse in a maze, my mind reeling with confusion, shock and a sense that comes from one irrefutable fact I discover right then and there…

I’ve been observed and watched in secret for years.

I notice another familiar trait that makes my stomach dip.

Most of the paintings on display look like the subject is suffering in some way.

She’s worried about something.

Confused.

In agony.

Curious.

Sad.

Lonely.

Depressed.

Holy God… what is this?

“Notice something?” The smooth, deep, cultured voice speaks.

I don’t have a hope of turning around because he’s right behind me, looking up at the painting completely in red.

“Is this…” I trail off as my stomach knots and twists painfully.

The girl in this particular painting looks determined, stubborn, resolute and fearless.

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