I’ve come to realize that I haven’t been drawing lately. It’s quite depressing, really. It’s what I would always do to pass the time. I grab my sketchbook from where I had left it under my bed a few days ago and flip through it. There’s so many sketched here that I don’t remember doing, and others I remember drawing like I do the back of my hand. There’s the softball field from school, where the fight occurred on the first day of school. The pencil sketches are rough and beginning to smear. I take a pencil from the cup on my bedside table and smooth everything out, defining the lines more carefully, and then I go over them with a thin black marker.
After I finish defining the lines of the shadows of people that were gathered around the fight, I flip through the rest of the sketches. There aren’t that many empty pages left in here for me to draw on. I make a mental note to myself to go out and buy another one soon.
One of the last few pages, I find, is one of Christian. As I stare at it, I try to recall why I had drawn this, and when. I can’t really remember, but I’m assuming that it’s from the night he came over to my house, utterly frantic, running from whomever had hurt him so badly. He still hasn’t said who would do such a thing, and I’m trying to not push the subject, but I feel as if there needs to be justice for him. It may not be my place, but I feel as if I have to do something about it, that I have to help him. Who would want to hurt him so badly like that?
There are faint footsteps that are closer than I thought they were, and then there’s a nudge at my shoulder. I look up, startled, to see Christian standing there, looking at the sketch I had done of him. My cheeks flush with heat; it’s so embarrassing. I must seem creepy, having drawn him when he wasn’t even conscious, but he doesn’t say anything. He sits behind me on the bed and rests his chin on my shoulder, looking down at the sketch. The thin pencil lines perfectly grasp the attention of the viewer and guide the eyes to the slashes on his back, the ones that seem like eye slits dripping with blood. The photo is more gruesome than it was that night, the blood that was seeping from his wounds pooling on his back as if they were accumulating into their own dark sticky pond. One of his arms is dangling over the edge of the bed, the other elegantly draped over the back of his head. He seemed at peace, despite the pain he was going through.
“This is beautiful, and almost creepy,” he says, his voice hoarse. The vibration of his voice sending a peculiar sensation over my shoulder blade. I can feel his Adam’s apple rub against my shoulder. He reaches over me and strokes the piece of paper gently, as if it would catch fire if his fingers were to brush it the wrong way. I would never expect Christian so be so careful with anything. “It looks so…real,” is all he says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, slightly turning my head so I can see part of his face. When I do so, his lips brush my jaw line, but he doesn’t pull back. I hesitate for a moment and then turn away, looking back at the sketch. I feel his eyes on me, his face floating right by mine.
“I don’t really know,” he says lowly. “It’s beautiful though. I can almost feel the burning pain all over again just by looking at it.”
I nod and swallow hard, trying to push past the lump in my throat. Christian’s presence is beginning to make me very uncomfortable. I can feel his breath warming the crook of my neck, amusing my skin. There’s a chill that runs through me, and I curse myself when I dare to look back at him again. He pulls back to look at all of me, and the right side of my body where he was leaning against goes cold. His dark eyes are brooding and unreadable as usual. It irks me that I can never take anything from them, and it leaves me utterly surprised when I feel his lips collide with mine. It surprises me even more when I don’t pull away from him. I know I should because all I’m thinking about is Cole and how much this is cheating. I didn’t even mean for this to happen, and I’m not sure why it is happening. Christian despises me, doesn’t he? He’s always picking on me and finding new insulting names to call me every chance he gets. Princess. Dandelion. Nerd. Coconut. I’m always waiting for the next golden one he comes up with.
Christian’s lips are full and hot against mine, his tongue gentle as it pries into mouth. There’s a whole new level of ecstasy coursing through me, but it has to be stopped. I push him away and stand up, backing away against the desk. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and stare at the floor. I can’t look at him. I can feel his gaze burning holes into my skull, and that if I meet his eyes I might just get the urge to reconnect with him.
“Can you get out of my room, please?” I ask shyly, my voice barely a whisper. I can’t find it in me to raise it any higher.
He doesn’t say anything. He just gets up and leaves, closing the door gently behind him.
I start to cry.