Page 2 of Drawn to Death
“I want you to figure out what’s happening. Somehow, this guy knows about the killings. Then he draws them and sticks them online.”
“So he’s either stupid or just clueless.” I try to sound bored, but honestly, I’m dying to see the hand that can draw like this, even if I have to chop it off myself.
“He puts them on his website, asking for help. Says he’s psychic. Wants to know more about the people behind the deaths."
Crap, I can't have a website listing all my kills in this detail
"Lucky for us, he thinks they’re all old cases, like he’s channeling restless souls or something.” Vincenzo keeps talking, and my heart keeps sinking.
“I get it.” If the guy just vanishes, people might dig into his sketches. That would connect him to my kills, and I can’t have that.
“This artist has to be handled. Permanently.”
“I’ll do it.”
Vincenzo’s eyes narrow, like he’s trying to see if I’ll flinch. I don’t. My heart is slamming in my chest, but I keep my face blank. He nods, like that’s all he needs. I need a lot more; this isn't about killing a witness, this is about uncovering a mystery, and I'm already curious.
Chapter two
Quell
My head spins, caught somewhere between the end of a nightmare and the start of being awake. I’m there, standing over some guy. He’s begging, blubbering, his face streaked with tears. Then I hear the gun go off, and his face just… shatters. That’s when I wake up. Screaming.
My whole body is slick with cold sweat, as real as the blood I just saw. My heart thuds so hard I think it might crack my ribs. It isn’t real. It didn’t happen. But the face is right there. I stood where the killer stood. I pull the trigger. Same as always.
For a second, I can’t do anything. My arms and legs won’t move. Then the itching starts.
I go from frozen to frantic in a heartbeat. I shoot out of bed, grab my glasses and scramble for my sketchbook, shivering as the cold air hits me.
The clock on my dresser flashes 3:17 AM, all angry and red. The time just stares at me. No way I’ll get back to sleep, and it’s way too early to call my therapist. My nightmares always pick the hours when she’s asleep.
There’s never really a choice. Not for me. I have to draw it, or it will haunt me forever. It’s the only way to get the death out of my mind
I pad barefoot into my art studio. Most people would call it the living room, I guess. But for me, the art supplies are the main thing. I live to paint.
But tonight, it’s the pencils that call to me in the dark. The faces that haunt my nights don’t deserve the bright mockery of paint. They need the detail of a pencil sketch, every line and shadow.
Maybe it’s the sound, the graphite scratching against the paper, a promise that whatever I draw is trapped there, on the paper, unable to move. Out of my head. Or maybe it’s just the act of drawing itself, the way my hand steadies as the nightmare takes shape beneath my pencil. The first lines are a mess, barely a body, just a lump, but the more I press, the clearer he becomes. I can see him. The man, huddled and waiting, coming alive on the paper
People tell me I’m talented. I don’t see it. All I see is death.
It’s funny, in a way. I mean, maybe not for the guy on the page, but for me it is. I guess he wouldn’t laugh, not with what’s about to happen to him. But this is the part that sticks, the second before everything ends. Not the begging, not the mess of blood, not the noise. Just the second his eyes realize he’s dying.
The pencil slips from my hand. I stare at the drawing. We look at each other, me and him.
Finally, I can feel the peace he must feel. No more blood, no more begging. Just the face on the paper. Just a single tear that never falls.
With the picture out of my head and stuck on the page, I get up and shuffle over to the kitchenette for water. My throat feels raw from all the screaming, but I’m still better off than the guy on the paper. No complaints.
I drink the water too fast and end up coughing, bracing myself against the counter until the tightness in my chest lets go. When I can breathe again, I amble back to the drawing and stare at it from across the table. My fingertips buzz, same as always after one of these… whatever they are.
My life is a mess of half-finished paintings and unfinished mugs of tea. As long as my reflection looks more dead than alive, nobody’s going to hire me. My doctor says therapy will help. My insurance company doesn’t care. So where does that leave me? I can try to get a job, scrape together enough for a few sessions, or just keep going through the endless cycle of rejection. Or I can stay here, stuck in my own swamp of self-pity.
I cross the room with tonight’s drawing like it might bite me. Unzip the black folder where I keep all the other nightmares, the ones I’ve managed to pin down on paper, just to keep myself together. I can’t help flipping through them. There are dozens, maybe more, stacked in loose piles, grouped by cause of death like that will somehow explain anything. I have nothing. No faith, no superstition, no childhood trauma. My head was never bounced off a wall too many times.
Tonight, I drop the sheet in the folder, same as the others. Tomorrow, I’ll take it to the library and scan it onto my website.Dreamscream.I never set out to put my art behind a paywall, like OnlyFans for the macabre. But after my friend suggested it, it seemed as good a way to buy groceries as any.
As long as I keep telling myself I’m looking for someone who can help. Every post carries the same disclaimer:From my nightmares. If you recognize the person, let me know. I’m trying to understand them too.
