Page 43 of Drawn to Death
“If it ends with me,” I say, voice low and even, “then let’s end it.”
His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Just a choked, desperate sound.
I hold the gun out to him, grip first. It hangs in the air between us, this machine built for ending things. My arm doesn’t shake. Nothing in me hesitates. This feels right, in a way I can’t explain. Like I’ve been moving toward this moment since the day I decided not to kill him.
“Take it,” I say.
He looks at the gun as if it might jump at him, or maybe even bite. “Talon, no…”
“You say it will never stop. Not until one of us is dead.” I keep my voice soft, but there is no wiggle room. “So I’m giving you the choice.”
Quell’s hands are shaking. Actually shaking. I think he might fall apart right there. But he reaches out, slow, hesitant, hisfingers barely brushing the metal like he doesn’t trust it, or maybe himself.
“I can’t…”
“You can.” I press the gun into his palm, folding his fingers around it, one at a time. His skin feels cold and sticky, but my hand stays steady, almost warm. I guide his hand, the gun now properly in his grip, and lift it up to my forehead. The barrel is hard against my skin. One final moment. “Don’t think. Just pull the trigger.”
His breath stutters, like he’s drowning. The gun shakes against my forehead, scraping little lines into my skin. I don’t move. Don’t even blink. I just keep his hand there, holding the gun tight to my head.
“Listen to me,” I say. My voice drops low, just for him. For the small space between us where our breaths tangle. “There’s money in the safe behind the bookshelf. Combination’s 4826. Enough to get you gone for a long time.”
A tear rolls down his cheek, slow and shiny. Then another. He doesn’t pull the gun away.
“In the closet, top shelf, there’s a black backpack. Three burner phones inside. Use the blue one first. It’s already got a number in it; a guy who can get you a new name, new papers.” The words come out smoothly, like I’ve practiced. I have, in my head ever since the cleaner showed up at our door. “Tell him I sent you. That I’m gone. He’ll help.”
“Talon, please…”
“After that, you go west. Keep moving. New hotel every night. Pay cash. Stay off the main roads.” I squeeze his wrist, making sure the gun stays put. “They won’t find you if you’re smart. If you’re careful.”
Quell is shaking so hard now that the tremors run through his whole body, like he is fighting off a fever. The gun wobbles against my forehead, but I keep it there, steadying it with myown hand. His knuckles are white, bone-tight around the grip, but his finger hovers just off the trigger. Barely.
“You already see it, don’t you?” My voice sounds weird, echoing in my own ears like it belongs to someone else. “My face. My end.”
His eyes go huge. That is answer enough.
“I’m tired, Quell.” The words feel strange coming out. I don’t usually say stuff like that. I don’t open up. But if these are my last seconds, I want them to be real. “You’ve seen too much. In your drawings. Through my eyes. All those deaths, all that blood. It’s poisoning you.”
He is breathing fast now, too fast. His chest flutters up and down like a bird trapped in a shoebox.
“It’s your choice,” I tell him. “But if you really think killing me will give you peace, this is your one shot.”
The gun is cold on my skin now, or maybe that’s just the sweat running down my hairline. Quell’s hand is shaking so badly that I have to grip it tighter to keep the barrel in place.
“Dying would stop the dreams.” I let my thumb brush over his wrist, feeling his pulse thumping wild under my touch. “Maybe it should be me.”
Something in his eyes just… breaks. Like a dam bursting, or a wall getting knocked down in one blow. His face twists up, lips shaking, and a sound comes out of him that isn’t even a word. His finger hovers over the trigger, flexing, relaxing, flexing again.
“I’m not afraid to die, Quell.” I mean it. Death isn’t scary anymore; it’s just something that waits around the corner, like a stray dog. “But I am afraid you’ll keep waking up alone.”
The gun hits the floor between us, falling from his hand like it is red-hot. The sound it makes echoes in the apartment, sharp and final, like a door slamming shut. The noise vibrates throughthe floor, through my knees, up my back. Something decided. Something broken. Something saved.
Quell’s face just… folds in on itself. His lips part, trying to shape a word, but all that comes out is a choked, ugly gasp. His hands, empty now, hover awkwardly in the air before clawing at his throat, his chest, like he can’t get any oxygen at all.
I don’t move. Just watch him unravel, every muscle in his body tense and shaking with the effort to breathe. His eyes are wild, desperate, locked on me like I’m the last thing holding him to this world.
“I…” He tries, but whatever he means to say gets strangled out, caught somewhere in his chest. His face is going gray, lips edged with blue.
I know what this is. A panic attack. It's a bad one. His breathing is all wrong, too fast, too shallow, like his body has decided it is dying and is determined to make it true. He is gulping air, but none of it seems to reach him.
