Page 38 of Drawn to Death
I find him in his bedroom, curled up in the armchair, knees tight to his chest. He’s clutching his sketchbook like it’s a liferaft, knuckles white. He doesn’t even hear me come in, which is weird, considering how jumpy he’s gotten lately. His glasses have slid down his nose, and there are streaks on his cheeks, dried tears catching the light.
I stay in the doorway, watching. Something’s shifted since this morning. When I left, he was sleepy and smug, tangled in my sheets with that lazy grin that makes my heart do stupid things. Now? He looks like he’s seen a ghost. Worse. Not the usual haunted-by-his-visions thing, but something sharper, meaner, right now.
I back up into the hallway, thinking fast. No way am I going to sneak up on him and make it worse. So I go back to the front door, open it, let it slam a little. “Quell?” I call, making sure he can hear me.
Silence. Then a shuffle from his bedroom. “In here,” he calls back, voice thin and shaky.
When I come back to the doorway, he tries to pull himself together, sitting up straighter, face arranged into something less tragic. The sketchbook is half-hidden at his side, but his fingers are still gripping the edge like he’s afraid it’ll vanish if he lets go.
“Everything okay?” I ask. As if the answer isn’t already written all over him.
He nods, a quick, awkward jerk. “Fine,” he says, but his eyes flick to the sketchbook and then away. “Just tired.”
I step into the room carefully, keeping my shoulders loose and my hands easy at my sides. I’ve learned how to do that for him, to soften the parts of me that make people tense up. “You’re a shit liar,” I say, but I keep it gentle.
He almost smiles. It’s there for a second, then gone. “Yeah,” he answers. “I know.”
I crouch down in front of him, so we’re eye to eye. “What happened?” My voice is low, steady. “Did you have another vision?”
His eyes dart to the sketchbook again, and something in my chest goes cold. Whatever he’s seen, it’s in there. Locked up in graphite and paper, waiting.
“Talon…I…” He stops. Swallows. His hand shakes where it grips the sketchbook.
Before he can finish, his eyes slide shut and his chin drops, trying to stop the tears from coming. He falls forward into me, arms locking around the back of my head, his body going slack against me as he sobs uncontrollably. The sketchbook slips from his fingers.
I catch it before it hits the ground.
For a second, I just hold it, feeling the weight settle in my hands. I’ve seen a lot of Quell’s drawings by now. Deaths. Violence. Moments frozen in time from my point of view, or from the eyes of the people I’ve killed. I think I’ve gotten used to whatever his pencil can show me.
I’m wrong.
I open the sketchbook, and everything in me stills. The drawing is perfect, down to the smallest line. It’s me, but not the killer, not the weapon. Me, kneeling on a bare floor. Back straight, head tipped forward a little. There’s a gun in my hand, resting against my thigh, finger nowhere near the trigger. My eyes are closed. My face is calm. Too calm. The calm of someone who’s already made peace with what’s coming. And one sentence written underneath.
It isn’t a murder. It’s a goodbye.
I stare at the drawing, at this version of myself ready for something final. The acceptance on my face, that’s what hits the hardest. Not defeat. Not fear. Just… steady resolve. Like a man who knows exactly what he’s doing, and why.
I know what it means. I always have, really. The second Vincenzo’s eyes land on Quell in that ice-cold office, the secondMickey shows up with a gun and orders. I’m the threat now. Me being in Quell’s life, that’s what puts him in danger.
I’ve been kidding myself, thinking we could just… exist. That I could keep killing for Vincenzo, keep my place, and Quell would stay safe. That Vincenzo would just accept my ultimatum and move on. That was never going to happen. Every day I stay, Quell is marked.
I reach into the dresser drawer and pull out the syringe I had left there when I first grabbed him in case he ever tried fighting me. Using my teeth, I pull the cap off the needle and plunge it into his neck.
Quell slumps, his arms dropping from my neck as he passes out. He’s now free from the dreams, and then whatever horrors went through his mind when he was drawing, it's all too much for him.
It's easy enough to lean him back and rest him in the chair. He seems used to sleeping in awkward positions from my studying.
I close the sketchbook and set it down on the table. My decision is made before I even admit it to myself. I need to go. I need to make Quell disappear, and then I have to walk away from him. Give him a shot at a normal life, or at least one where he’s not always looking over his shoulder for Vincenzo’s men.
Quell shifts in the chair, eyelids fluttering, but he doesn’t wake. I stand, memorizing every angle of his face, the way his hair falls over his forehead, the slight part of his lips as he breathes. Three weeks, and I’ve already forgotten how to exist without seeing him.
I move through the apartment with practiced efficiency. Grab the go-bag from the closet, that's already packed. Cash from the safe behind the bookshelf. Enough to disappear for a while. Fake IDs, the ones even Vincenzo doesn’t know about. Extra ammunition. A burner phone, still in the box.
We need to leave; I need to drop Quell somewhere safe before he wakes. But writing a goodbye note is harder than I imagined. I sit at the table and stare at the blank page. What do you even say when you’re walking out on the only person who’s ever really seen you? The only one who knows what you are and still stays?
I write clinically. Safe house addresses. Bank account numbers. Contact info of trustworthy allies in case things get desperate. Basically, a cheat sheet for how to vanish before Vincenzo ever comes looking.
The pen feels awkward in my hand, like I’ve forgotten how to write anything that matters. I always figure if I die, it’ll be fast. Messy. This… feels like mercy. I cross that out. Too dramatic. Too honest.
