Page 10 of Drawn to Death
I reach for a fresh sheet of paper, the heavy, expensive kind I usually save for commissions. My pencil hovers over the blank, textured surface. Most days, my hand moves on its own, channeling visions I don’t understand. But not today. Today, I am making the choice.
“I’m going to draw something for you,” I say. To the air, the walls, wherever the eyes are hiding. “Something real.”
The pencil touches down soft and scratchy. I start with the outline of my apartment, not how it looks from where I sit, but from above. The living room with its cluttered drawing table. The kitchenette and its narrow counter. Doorways to the bathroom and bedroom. I add details, one by one: the stack of sketchbooks on the coffee table, the leaning tower of mugs by the sink, the pile of laundry I meant to do yesterday.
My hand moves, steady, deliberate. None of the wild twitch of my visions, no fever in the wrist. This is something else. Not channeling, but creating. I want my watcher to see that I can look, too.
Where would he put the cameras? I try to see my apartment through someone else’s eyes. Above the cabinets, maybe, tucked in the shadows. In the smoke detector over my drawing table. Or in the ceiling light fixture in the bedroom.
I draw each spot, careful lines, mapping out sight lines from cameras to the places I spend most of my time. In the corner, I add a tiny figure at a desk. Just a sketch, a curve of the back, shoulders hunched, the glow of a screen on a blank face. I write a single word beneath it:You.
When I finish, I lean back and look at what I’ve done. Not a nightmare, not a vision, just a map of now. An answer of sorts. My drawings of the cameras makes me chuckle. I’ve no idea what hidden cameras look like, but on the drawing they look like claws. Little talons digging into the corners of my home.
I tear the page from my sketchbook. The rip sounds huge in the quiet. I stand and carry it to the bookshelf, right where I think a camera might be hidden. The angle would catch my desk, and most of the room.
“I know you’re watching,” I say, voice low but steady, as I prop the drawing against a row of art books. “I know you took my drawing.”
I step back, making sure the page is visible. The figure I label stands out, impossible to miss. My heart keeps its rhythm, not wild, not cold. Just steady, like it always is, even now. Even with this.
“I don’t know who you are,” I continue, speaking straight at the drawing, at the invisible cameras I know are there. “But you know me now. You’ve seen what I see.”
Silence.
It feels tight, stretched thin, like the moment between lightning and thunder. I am not alone anymore, not in this gift, or curse, or whatever it is. Someone else has stepped in, someone who sees what I see, who recognizes something in the mess of my visions.
I let my fingers drift along the edge of the drawing table. The grooves are deep in places, worn smooth in others, a record of every hour I spend here. Now it is part of someone else’s record too.
"I'm not afraid of you."
I hear my voice and realize it is almost true. The fear hasn’t left, but it has folded itself into something else. Curiosity, maybe. Or resignation. Or that strange, raw closeness you get when someone sees you down to the bone. Probably the only person in the world who sees me.
Heading to the window, I glance out, as if my imaginary stalker is going to be standing there waiting.
Outside, the world is still spinning on its usual axis. People walk dogs, scroll their phones, live small lives untouched by death-visions or the sense of eyes in the dark. I envy them a little. The simplicity of not knowing.
But only for a second.
I turn, letting my gaze sweep over the apartment. My apartment, though it doesn’t quite feel like mine now. The drawing is still there, right where I left it, a message, or a dare, waiting in the open. Will there be an answer? Or will the watcher stay hidden, just collecting, giving nothing back?
Doesn’t matter. Something is different. I am not just a dumping ground for nightmares anymore. I will do something. I answer back.
I cross to the drawing and nudge it, making sure it is dead center. Then I lean in, lips almost brushing the paper, and whisper two words I know will land. "Your turn."
I guess I’ll see what he does after my daily visit to the coffee shop for my caffeine fix and my attempt at normal socialization.
Chapter seven
Talon
His drawing stares me down from the shelf, right where he left it. A rough map of his apartment, scrawled in pencil, camera placements marked out with a kind of spooky precision, and a stick figure labeled “You.”
That is me. I’ve been made. The kid doesn't just see what I do to other people. He sees me. I fold the paper and slide it into my pocket, my fingers running along the sharp crease. Your turn, he whispered. He isn’t wrong. Watching is over. Time to do something.
I pull out my phone and wipe the remote access to his cameras. If he has found those, he’ll find the rest. No point leaving anything behind. The feeds go dark, one after the other. I don’t need them now. Next time I see Quell, it’ll be in person.
The safe house is twenty minutes from his place. I set it up three days ago, just to be safe. Not Vincenzo’s. Mine. Personal. Concrete floors, no echo. Blackout curtains over the windows. Chairs that don’t tip, with anchor points that won’t break. The kind of place you take someone if you want them to disappear.
I brought my supply bag with me when I slipped in here Just the essentials. Zip ties. Duct tape. Sedative. Gloves. Blindfold. Spare clothes in case things go sideways, but I’m not planning on that. The Beretta is tucked inside, loaded, safety on. Just in case. Not the plan.
