Page 150 of Shadowman
“It’s all in there.” I stepped aside, fear and thrill vibrating through my extremities. “The reason I’m here, the things I’ve done… That journal is basically everything about me that no one knows.”
“Why… are you showing me where it is, Byron?” he asked softly.
I took one last breath to search his vibrant irises for any sign that this was a bad idea, before finally whispering, “I want you to read it.”
That was nearly a half-hour of pacing and self-doubt ago, and he’s still reading. Still nestled up in his bed, with my journal in his lap, violet frantically scanning the pages as if he’s entranced.
I don’t know how to feel about that.
“You know, you don’t have to stare at me while I’m reading it,” he hums, gaze never leaving the book.
“What am I supposed to do?” I scoff. “Go to bed?? I might never sleep again…”
He chuckles, finally prying himself away from my journal to peek at me. “Byron, I just have to say one thing.”
Oh, God…“What’s that?” I cover my face with my hands.
“You’re a very talented writer.”
Huh?My face snaps in his direction.
That’s… not what I expected him to say.
“Honestly, this is really good,” he awes. “You’re not simply writing down what happened to you. I’m feeling it, alongside you. That’s the mark of a talented writer. Evoking emotion and all…”
My chest warms, tingles of heat spreading up my neck and into my face. “It’s just a journal… Nothing special.” Gaze dropping to my shoes, I kick invisible rocks.
“Learn how to take a compliment, warrior.”
When I glance up, he’s smirking at me. I roll my eyes for show.
“Whether it’s a journal or not is irrelevant. This is no‘Dear Diary, today we had Eggos for breakfast and the guards beat a man unconscious.’ This isreal, deep stuff that you’ve bled onto the page. It’s palpable how honest you’re being within these pages.”
I have to gulp, flustered and hiding it as best I can. “Yea…?”
He nods animatedly.
“Well, that means a lot coming from you. Since, you know… you’re anactualwriter and all.”
He huffs, shaking his head. “I writepoetry. There’s a big difference.”
“Yea, poetry is a lot more complex than just writing down your experiences. Doesn’t it have to, like… rhyme?”
Trevel releases a rumbly chuckle, his brow cocking at me. “Who told you that? Dr. Seuss?”
I bite back a smirk. “No… I’m depressed. I like Edgar Allan Poe.”
He laughs again. “Okay, I’ll excuse that because Poe is one of my favorites. But no, it doesn’t always have to rhyme.” I give him a questioning look, to which he grins. “You want me to stop and give you a poetry lesson?”
“Not right now,” I mumble, the smirk pushing its way out. “What kind do you write?”
“Anything. Everything.” He shrugs. “I just write what I feel… Kind of like you.”
Inching closer, I stand on the edge of my bunk, pulling myself up by the railing to watch as he dives back in. I’ve never considered myself awriter. In fact, I never wrote a damn thing before I came to prison. My interests always revolved around the physical; training, fighting, exercise and nutrition.
Apparently, I’ve tapped into something with this journal… A gift from The Ivory.
Disregarding that odd sentiment, I ask. “Can I read something you’ve written?”
