Page 25 of Drawn to Death
I'm standing in the center of Talon’s living room, not moving, barely breathing. The air is thick with the metallic tang of blood and the harsh sting of cleaning chemicals. Everything feels dim, the light leaking in through closed blinds and pooling in the corners, making the shadows look like they are hiding something. Mickey’s body is just there, slumped on the floor between us, a dark stain spreading beneath him, slow and sure. I keep staring at his face. His eyes are wide open, like he’s still trying to understand what has happened, or maybe like he’s still seeing the knife. I have drawn that face before, every line, every angle. But now, something is off. Deeply off.
“We need to move him,” Talon says. His voice is weirdly gentle, almost careful, in the quiet.
I nod but say nothing. I can’t. My mouth feels like it’s full of sand, my tongue heavy and stupid. I watch Talon crouch down next to Mickey. He moves as if he knows exactly what he is doing, like he’s done this a hundred times. No shaking hands. No nerves. Just business.
Talon looks up. “Are you going to be okay?”
I give another nod, but it isn’t true. I am not okay. Not because Mickey is dead; I’ve seen Talon kill before, felt what it is like, the gun, the knife, the aftermath. Death isn’t new to me. But this is different.
Talon grabs Mickey under the arms and starts dragging him. His boots scrape across the wood floor, slow and steady, leaving thin scratches behind. Scriiitch. Scriiitch. The sound is sharp, and it fills up the entire room. Scriiitch. Like someone is being erased.
I watch Talon’s back as he pulls Mickey toward a door I've never been able to open before. I never asked; there is a reason why killers and kidnapers have locked doors in their homes, and it's always better not to pry. Talon has a key in his hand, and he gets it in the lock without even thinking about it, still holding Mickey up. The lock clicks. That is it.
Talon pulls Mickey into the dark room, the boots sliding after him, and then they are gone. The door stays open, just blackness past the edge. I can hear Talon moving around inside, shifting something heavy, but I can’t see a thing.
My gaze drops to the stain spreading out across the floorboards. It isn’t the blood that gets me. I’ve seen plenty, worse than this, in my visions. This is different. Something twists in my gut, the sensation crawling up into my throat, sour and cold.
The drawing. My drawing of Mickey’s death. The angle is off slightly. Not by much, but it's enough. A change is a change.
Did the death change because Talon knew it was coming? Perhaps I just drew it wrong. Maybe the future isn't fixed, and changes can happen. Like drawing my kiss that didn't happen. It's all wrong.
Everything is wrong. Breathing isn't proving very effective right now.
It's wrong.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
The room tilts. I reach out, steadying myself with a flat palm against the wall, the surface cool under my skin. What is going on with me? Am I changing, or are the visions changing?
In my drawing, I saw Mickey’s face from behind. Saw the fear in his eyes, the way his lips parted to try to speak. Saw the second the knife opened his throat, a red smile blooming there.
But this time, he didn’t see it coming.
I drew it through Talon’s eyes, and now I remember it through my own. I witnessed the same death twice, from two angles, at the same time.
It's all wrong.
The floor shivers beneath my feet, unsteady, like I am standing on a pond just beginning to crack. My vision fuzzes at the edges; the room seems to stretch and shrink with every breath I take.
Everything is wrong.
I feel myself spiraling, falling into the questions. I can't remember the death both ways.
The fear isn’t sharp or loud. It is quiet, curling low in my belly, like a cold hand squeezing until I ache. My hands tremble. Not the familiar twitch of an artist fighting for control, but something older, deeper.
The sound of the door closing snaps me back. Talon comes closer, wiping his hands on a towel. He moves with the same careful grace as always, but there is something different about his face now. Softer, maybe.
“It’s taken care of,” he says. I wonder how many times he has said that, in just that way. Like erasing a life is as simple as wiping down a countertop.
He crosses the room toward me, and I can’t help noticing the contrast. The apartment is chaos: blood on the floor, a broken vase scattered in pieces, violence everywhere. But Talon is order.Calm. Every movement measured, his breathing steady. He is a fixed point in a spinning world.
“Quell.” My name in his mouth sounds almost gentle.
I must look as shaky as I feel, because he closes the distance in three quick steps. His hands find mine, warm and solid, grounding me.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
The question drops like a stone in a pond. Everything ripples out from it: my thoughts, my fear, the entire room. Am I alright? How can I answer that? I have just watched a man die from in front and behind. A man I have already drawn, already seen dead. Through my eyes and his.
