Page 37 of Drawn to Death
I keep going, adding the lines at the corners of his eyes, the shape his mouth makes when he is truly at ease. It is coming along, better than I hoped. No visions, no warnings. Just a portrait. Just Talon.
But then something shifts.
My hand keeps moving, but the drawing changes. His head, once relaxed, now tilts forward. The shoulders, loose, pull tight. My fingers work without me, scribbling in new lines, sharper lines. The curve of his wrist straightens out, becomes his arm, extends, holding something I don’t mean to draw.
“No,” I mutter, but my hand keeps moving, anyway.
The shadows deepen around him, no longer that gentle morning haze in our bedroom but something colder, heavier. A void, really. Talon kneeling right in the middle of it, back straight, shoulders set, like he is bracing for something.
My breath snags as I add the last piece, the gun. Not pointed at anyone, just there, loose in his grip, barrel against his thigh. His eyes are shut in the drawing, face all calm and unreadable, the way he always looks when he kills, except this isn’t that. Not a kill. Something else.
“This one isn’t a nightmare,” I say, mostly to myself. My voice sounds thin. “It’s a goodbye.”
My hands shake as I stare at what I’ve done. The graphite looks darker now, shadows pressing in. I know what that means. This isn’t just a sketch anymore. It is a vision. Something set in motion already.
But it isn’t Talon killing. It is Talon alone, gun in hand, kneeling, like he is giving in or getting ready to, I can’t tell. There’s a kind of peace to it, but it makes my chest hurt.
My heart thumps hard and fast. This can’t be real. Not for him. Not for us. I yank the page out, crumple it in my fist. I’ll start over. Draw something new. Something that doesn’t end like this.
I get a clean sheet, and try to go back to my first idea. Talon smiling. Talon just… calm. But my hand won’t listen. Instead, the same image comes out, line after line: Talon kneeling, the gun raised like he could be offering it to someone, with that look on his face. The acceptance. Every shadow, every angle, exactly as before.
“Stop,” I mutter, but my hand doesn’t care. It keeps going, making the same picture over and over.
I try again. And again. Each time, the same thing. Like the image brands itself into my bones, and now it is coming out no matter what I want.
By the fifth try, I give up. My hands are shaking so much I can barely hold the pencil. I spread the drawings out, searching for anything different, any clue. But they are basically clones. The way his knee presses the floor. His thumb on the grip. The quiet, absolute stillness.
There isn’t any blood. No violence, not really. Just Talon, waiting. Or maybe accepting. That’s worse than the usual stuff I draw. Those are just death, fast and ugly. This is… waiting. Holding your breath. The second before.
My legs buckle and I drop into the chair, still gripping a drawing. The studio walls squeeze in, the air turning thick and sticky. I can’t breathe right. My vision narrows until all I can see is Talon’s face, waiting for the end.
I have to do something. I always upload my visions; that is the ritual, the way to make them real, but this one? Oh, hell no. Not Talon. Not this. But I need a record, need the timestamp, need proof for myself if not for the world.
My hands are shaking as if I’ve just mainlined adrenaline. I scan the clearest of the drawings, nearly dropping the damnthing twice, then fumble my way through a private upload. Locked file, just for me. Date and time stamped right there in the metadata. Evidence. A little digital “fuck you” to fate.
When it is done, I gather up the sketches, fingers still trembling, heart doing some kind of tap dance against my ribs. No way I can leave them out. What if Talon sees? He’s been so careful with me, so gentle, even when he’s out there killing for my sake. He’s chosen me. Defended me to Vincenzo. And now my visions are showing me his end.
In my bedroom, I find an envelope in the side table drawer, cram the drawings inside, and bury it under a pile of old sketchbooks. Not Fort Knox, but hidden enough for now. I’ll find a better spot later, maybe somewhere even I can’t find them if I’m not looking.
The room feels colder now. Morning light comes in like a slap instead of a caress, harsh and exposing. I hug myself, trying to stop the tremors that start in my fingers and are now threatening to take over my entire body.
“It hasn’t happened yet,” I whisper, as if saying it will make it true. “That means I can stop it. Right?”
But the words sound pathetic, even to me. I’ve never stopped a vision before. Never changed what I see. The drawings always come true, every single time. That’s the curse, the burden, the ugly little truth I’ve been living with for years.
I stare at the empty page on my drafting table, the blankness almost offensive after what I’ve just put down. My pencil lies abandoned, gray smudges on the wood where my fingers clutched it too tight.
The silence presses in, almost suffocating. In all the time I’ve been drawing deaths, I’ve never seen someone I love. Never captured a future that feels like losing a limb. The rules have changed, and I am completely, utterly lost.
All I know is that somewhere, somehow, a clock has started ticking for Talon. And I have no idea how to stop it.
Chapter nineteen
Talon
Iget back to the apartment just after noon, my gun a familiar, comforting weight at my back. The security sweep takes forever today. I check every angle, every shadow, every spot a second time, like I expect something to leap out and bite me. Two weeks with Quell and my paranoia is getting downright impressive. I shut the door behind me, soft click and just stand there. Listening. The place is dead quiet. No scratch of pencil, no off-key humming, just the kitchen clock ticking away like it’s the only thing alive.
Yeah, something’s wrong. The silence feels different when it’s not supposed to be there, even though it was normal before Quell came and turned everything upside down. My feet barely make a sound on the floor as I creep down the hall. Living room? Empty except for the evidence of Quell’s presence, a mug of tea abandoned on the coffee table, still warm when I touch it. Kitchen, nothing. Bathroom door wide open, lights off.
