about the artist and the great pride and detail he had put into every sketch. Or how he might have agonized over which line to make as a figure was shaped. It was better than thinking about how he must have been parted from his artwork.
I had to figure Charlie had probably stolen these from a poor struggling artist on some other smuggling adventure. For some reason, the idea pained me terribly. But it was only too easy to see him taking something he wanted for wanting’s sake. In the pit of me, I felt a pain rise at the knowledge. It was a shame beyond shame to claim something so lovely just for himself, to not share it with others. It made me angry; another offense to add to his list.
But then I scolded myself. I thought perhaps maybe I was being too harsh. I turned over the back of the sketchbook and looked for a price tag or an artist’s label, anything that would suggest someone had given it willingly. There was nothing but a few smudges of lead.
I continued to look through the sketches; some of them appeared unfinished or erased beyond the point of no return, but no less loved in their loveliness. One in particular that struck me was a view of a ship’s deck with pouring down rain during the night. There were no people in the sketch, no animals or objects, just the dark and the rain. I adored how the edges of the drawing were curled from being wet and some spots of lead had clearly been smudged by the drops of water. Looking at it, I could almost feel the cold of the night the water on my face.
After awhile, I picked up another sketchbook and examined those sketches as well. I saw a variety of landscapes and abstract designs, what I thought might have been Reid face down on a table of cards, a baby wearing sunglasses and chewing a building block…
I looked at them over and over again, hypnotized by every point the pencil made and each specific aspect of the pictures. I stared at each one until my eyes hurt.
Then I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and studied them more.
I was looking through the fourth sketchbook when I saw the first one. I must have been in the deep throes of unconsciousness, as my eyes appeared fastened shut by the dark shadows he’d drawn. My hair was matted like fine pieces of string into the pillow beneath it. He must have sketched it from the all too recent events. The sketch that came after it was similar, only he had shaded in the background beyond my lifeless form, making it just as dark there as it had been when I first awoke in Charlie’s room.
He had been drawing me while I lay in the Nothingness. Was it boredom while waiting for me to die that inspired him? The moment I thought it, I knew it couldn’t be true—this drawing of me was something beautiful, something so unlike my true self image, that it seemed obscene to compare the two. These criminals were practical. Beauty and practicality don’t mix.
It made me think that the media had exaggerated the things he’d done, as I was so quick to do. Yet Charlie admitted himself that he intentionally had caused physical harm, ending lives when properly provoked. And above all, I couldn’t forget that anger, the flash of rage when he was crossed the wrong way. I couldn’t deny that the temper within him frightened me.
It was some time later when I heard the knock at the door. At first it was so soft that I wasn’t quite sure I had heard it. I put my head back on the pillow and continued to look through the sketchbook. It was the fourth time I had looked at this one, but it was quickly becoming my favorite. It was mostly filled with scenic landscapes, and thanks to the talent of the artist and my own imagination, I could shut my eyes and easily transport myself there. I was about to go back to an unidentified winter wonderland when the knock came again, this time louder and more desperate.
I bolted upright and accidently dropped the sketchbook on the floor. The moment it landed, the knocking stopped and I heard large, heavy steps outside the door. They sounded impatient, eager. The options were flight or fight and I didn’t exactly have anywhere to run. So I