How Sinners Fight - Eva Ashwood Page 0,47

to the second floor two at a time, wondering where Gray went off to.

I get a shiver down my spine thinking about later tonight. The promises he’s made me, the things his body does to mine. I’m almost tempted to see if he wants to get out of here now, or to find a room in the huge house where we can be alone.

But then I hear those words from the other side of the door. They’re sharp and painful, like blades that pierce right through the armor around my heart.

There’s nothing special about her.

She’s not fucking worth it.

She’ll be gone by next semester anyway.

I’ve got it handled, all right?

I gasp for breath, and I think my dreaming self knows to run before I have to hear the rest of it, live through the rest of it all over again. I know what he’s going to say next, and I wish I could stop it.

But I can’t. This all happened already, and there’s no changing it now.

So I run. I turn on my heel and flee down the hall, running away from Gray and whatever other strange voice was behind the door. Only this time, the hallway seems to spin and morph around me, twisting into something else. Another hallway, in another place.

I’m surrounded by darkness. The shadowy corridor stretches out in front of me, and I feel like I know it somehow. Like I’ve been there before, I just don’t remember it. My heart is racing, pounding in my chest so hard it hurts, the hallway long and dark and endless.

I’m scared, but I’m not sure why. I’m running, but I’m not sure why.

There’s someone chasing me, pulling me back, but I don’t know who it is. I can feel the shadows breathing down on my neck, trying to force me back into their darkness.

But then the hall ends abruptly, at the top of a flight of stairs, and I feel rough hands on the back of my shoulder, pushing me.

And then I fall.

I wake with a start, my heart in my throat as I gasp for breath. My whole body jolts up from the bed, arms reaching out to try to stop my fall before I realize I’m a not falling at all. I stare around the room for a few seconds, blinking in shock at my surroundings. Then I collapse back to the mattress with a groan.

Ugh. So fucked up.

I hate dreams like that. It’s already starting to slip away from me, the details vanishing back into my subconscious, but the emotions remain, churning in my gut until I feel sick.

I throw the covers off. My tank top and shorts stick to my body, which is slick with a cold sweat. The dorm is chilly since I usually leave my window cracked open at night, but the last thing I want is to rush back into the warmth of my covers and fall back asleep. I can’t fall back asleep.

I know what I have to do.

Making my way into the little alcove I’ve turned into my art area, I yank open the thin curtains to let in the ambient light from the streetlamps that dot the campus grounds. It’s not much, but it’s enough. I don’t bother to turn on the overhead lights as I place a fresh canvas on the easel and blindly begin pouring paints onto a palette.

I don’t think. I don’t breathe. I just paint and paint and paint as the sun rises and the skin on my back begins to warm with it, until the dreams that were vivid just hours ago are faded thoughts in my mind, bleeding onto the canvas in front of me in a dark splash of colors and shadows.

When the painting is done, I step back and stare at it, trying to figure out what it means. The paint is still wet on my fingertips and smudged on my face as I try to decipher those shadows and harsh angles.

This is the first piece I’ve finished in a while, and the style is dark, even for me.

What does it mean?

I touch the wet paint, dragging my fingertips through it and smudging my work. What are you trying to tell me?

I’m not quite sure who I’m asking. And I guess it doesn’t really matter, because no answer comes.

I usually like to display my art, but there’s something particular about that piece. I’m not quite sure what it is that haunts me, but it gives me chills just looking at