Page 13 of Drawn to Death
Could I offer him that? I could look after him, and in return, he stops drawing. But would he agree to that? Given the alternative of death, of course he would, but if he was choosing between going home and what I wanted to offer…
I'm too dangerous to even consider making that offer. There has to be another solution to this.
"What happens to me now?" His voice is soft, almost a whisper.
I don’t answer right away. My hand hovers over his shoulder, not touching. I can feel the heat of his skin.
"I haven’t decided," I say finally.
His breath comes faster. "You’re the one who kills all those people in my drawings?"
"Yes. Some of them."
"Why?"
"Because someone pays me to." It’s the truth, simple.
He is silent for a second, then whispers, "so you’re going to kill me."
"If I was going to kill you, you’d already be dead." I slide back to my chair and sit down. "I want to understand how you’re seeing these things."
"I told you, I don’t know." His voice is getting tight, defensive. "It just happens. I go to sleep, and suddenly I’m someone else. Seeing through their eyes. Feeling what they feel." His eyes drop to the drawings. "Feeling what you feel."
The idea of him inside my head, watching my work, feeling what I feel, it should piss me off. Should feel like a violation. But instead, it is something else. Something sharp, almost electric. Like being recognized. Like being seen.
"Show me," I say.
He stares. "What?"
"Draw something. Now." I shove a blank sheet toward him, cut the zip tie on his right hand, and press a pencil into his palm. "Show me how it works."
"It doesn’t work like that. I can’t just…"
"Try." I speak harder than I mean, but I don’t care.
His fingers curl around the pencil, slowly at first, then firmer. He starts drawing. The sound of the lead scratching over the paper fills the room, steady and soft. I watch his face more than the paper. The way his eyes go distant. The crease between his eyebrows. His mouth parted just a little, as if he were breathing through the effort.
When he finishes, he sets the pencil down and slides the paper toward me.
It is a face. My face. Not as I look right now, but as I will see myself later. Tired. A little cut on my cheekbone that isn’t there yet. Eyes that have seen something they can’t forget.
"How…" I start, but the word sticks in my throat.
"I told you." His voice is quiet. "I see things."
I stare at the drawing, at this version of me that doesn’t exist yet. The detail is perfect, the stubble I haven’t bothered to shave, the shadow under my right eye, the way my mouth is pulled tight. But it is the look in my eyes that gets me. Haunted. Different.
"When does this happen?" I ask.
"Soon." He doesn’t say more.
I fold the drawing, careful with the edges, and slip it into my jacket pocket. Then I get up, move behind him, and undo the last of the zip ties. He rubs his wrists, but he doesn’t get up.
"What are you going to do with me?" His voice is steady.
I think about it. The plan was simple at first: check if he was a problem, then get rid of him. But that was before I saw what he’s really like. Before I realized what he could actually do.
"For now, you’re going to sleep," I say. I take out the second syringe. "We’ll figure out the rest later."
