Page 5 of Drawn to Death
He’s just a target, I remind myself. Just another problem to solve.
But my hand drifts to my pocket, fingertips brushing the folded drawing through the fabric. Quell has seen me. Has been in my head somehow. Has watched what I’ve done, and what I’m going to do.
For the first time in years, something strange settles in my chest. Not fear. Not exactly fascination, either.
Recognition.
I move down the fire escape without a sound, the metal rungs cold against my gloves. In the car, I unfold the drawing again under the dome light. The face of the man in the chair is so precise I can count the beads of sweat on his forehead. The hands gripping the pliers, my hands, are steady, certain.
This is what I will become. This is what Quell has seen.
I fold the paper again, slower this time, and slip it into my inside pocket, closer to my heart. Quell will draw again tonight. Will see through my eyes. Will put on paper the things I do in darkness.
And I’ll be watching when he does.
Chapter four
Quell
Iwake up with sunlight grinding into my eyelids, and a sour taste stuck in my mouth. It's always the same when I take the tablets. The hangover of a drugged sleep. My sheets are damp, twisted around my legs like I’ve tied myself down. Dreamless sleeps aren't very refreshing, but better than having the nightmares.
I kick the sheets off and sit on the edge of the bed, waiting for my heart to remember how to be normal. My therapist would tell me to ground myself. Five things I can see: charcoal stains under my fingernails, a pile of laundry collapsed in the corner, my glasses, my sketchbook on the nightstand, the empty glass I drained before passing out. Four things I can touch: the rough cotton of my t-shirt, the cool wood floor under my feet, stubble on my jaw, sweat sticky at my hairline. Three things I can hear: the fridge humming, a car horn somewhere below, my breathing, uneven and shaky.
I skip the rest of the exercise. It never really works for me, anyway.
In the kitchen, I fill the kettle and set it on the stove. I go through the motions of my morning ritual. The ceramic canister of loose tea leaves feels heavier than usual in my hand. I measure out a spoonful, carefully and exact. The dark flakes tumble into the infuser. My fingers tremble a little. They always do, after the dreams, but I'm usually steady after a night as the dead.
Something is off. I can’t put my finger on it, but it hovers at the edge of my mind, like a word I’ve forgotten. I look around the kitchen, then over at my drawing table by the window. Everything looks the same as always: organized chaos, the natural state for a working artist. Still, something whispers wrongness. Quiet, but there.
“You’re just tired,” I say out loud. My own voice startles me in the silent apartment. “Just the dream.”
The kettle whistles. I pour the water over the infuser. Watch the color bloom, slow and steady. Tea is the only thing that helps after these visions. Warm, familiar, real. Carry the mug to my drawing table, where the last sketch is waiting for me.
Except, it's not.
It’s gone. I check under the table, rummage through a stack of half-drawn images, but I can’t find it. I must be going mad. When I check the trash, all I find is an older drawing. My first ones never come out right, but this will have to do.
It is a nasty picture, a guy on his knees in some kind of warehouse, mouth twisted in pure panic, and behind him, a hulking shadow. I hadn't meant to put that second figure in. My hand just sort of does its own thing, sketching those dark shapes while I sweat over the victim’s eyes. Happens sometimes. Stuff shows up in the drawing that I can’t remember from the dream, like my brain is sneaking in details I didn’t even know I had.
I snap a photo of the sketch, upload it to Dreamdscream.pro, and type my usual line: From my nightmares. If you recognizethis person or place, please contact me. I’m trying to understand these visions too.
While it loads, I scroll through the latest comments on my old posts. Same old mix: people who sound half-obsessed, wannabe detectives, and folks who think they can psychoanalyze me from a distance.
These are incredible. The emotion is so raw.
Have you considered past-life trauma? Maybe you were a homicide detective.
This one reminded me of that unsolved Detroit murder from last year.
I sip my tea, reply to a few comments, and thank them for their interest. Gently correct the wildest ones. No, I’m not channeling spirits. No, I haven’t reported anything to the police, a hard thing to explain, that I see it all in dreams. No, I don’t think I’m psychic. Just… broken, in some specific, hard-to-name way.
My cursor hovers over a comment that makes my skin prickle: The shadows behind the victims. They're always the same shape. Have you noticed?
I haven’t. I go back through my gallery, clicking through the backgrounds in my drawings. Is there a pattern? The shadows change with the lighting, sure, but there is something, a suggestion of the same silhouette, a certain way the darkness pools. Not every time, but often enough to make my stomach twist.
The tea tastes bitter all of a sudden. I put the mug down, and it clinks against the table edge, way too loud. The sound echoes around my apartment, bouncing off the walls, which suddenly feel way too close. The feeling of being watched hits me from nowhere, making my skin itch.
I need air.
