Page 22 of Cheshire

As the tea dwindled in our mugs, Jo shifted gears. “You know, art was a lifesaver for me. Painting, specifically.” She ran a finger over a faded scar on her wrist, lost in a memory. “It helped me process the darkness, turn it into something beautiful. Now I mostly sketch. The club loaded me up with art supplies. Rabbit likes to draw too.”

I swallowed hard, my own scars itching beneath my sleeves. “I used to sketch,” I admitted quietly, the words rusty from disuse. “Before everything went to hell. Sometimes even afterward I would. My dad hated it. Every time he found one of my sketch pads, he’d destroy it.”

Jo’s eyes met mine, a flicker of hope sparking in their depths. “You should try it again sometime. It’s never too late to reclaim that part of yourself.”

Her words hit me like a sucker punch, knocking the air from my lungs. Could I really pick up a pencil again, after all this time? What if I wasn’t any good now?

The idea terrified me. But it also ignited a tiny ember in my chest, one I thought had long since burned out. It made me wonder if there was still a glimmer of light left in me after all.

“Want to try?” she asked.

“What if I suck at it now?”

She shrugged. “You won’t know if you don’t attempt to draw anything. And so what if it’s not the greatest? What matters is how it makes you feel.”

I nodded. “All right, but I don’t have anything.”

“Wait here.” She fled from the room and returned a few minutes later with a stack of sketchbooks and a box of pencils. “Mind if I draw too?”

“Sure.” I smiled. This could be fun, and perhaps it would make me reconnect with the part of myself I’d lost somewhere along the way.

She handed me a brand-new sketch pad and I took one of the pencils. Sitting at an angle where she couldn’t see the pad, I started drawing. I didn’t know how long we sat there, but by the time Jo said anything, I’d filled quite a few pages.

“May I?” Her voice was undemanding.

I hesitated, fear and doubt swirling inside me. But Jo’s gentle gaze steadied me. I nodded.

Carefully, she took the sketchbook, handling it like it was something precious. She settled beside me, the warmth of her body soaking into my skin, chasing away the chill that had seeped into my bones.

Slowly, reverently, she opened the cover. A small gasp escaped her lips as she took in the first drawing. It was a self-portrait, raw and unflinching. Every scar, every bruise laid bare on the page.

“Oh, Eliza,” she breathed. “This… this is incredible. The emotion, the honesty… it’s stunning.”

I ducked my head, unused to such praise. “It’s nothing special,” I mumbled. “Just some scribblings.”

Jo shook her head firmly. “No, it’s not nothing. It’s everything. This is your truth, your story. And it deserves to be seen, to be celebrated.”

She continued to flip through the pages, each one a window into my shattered soul. A landscape of jagged edges and bleeding skies. A portrait of a broken girl with haunted eyes. An abstract explosion of rage.

“You have such a gift,” Jo marveled. “The way you captured pain, resilience, hope… it’s breathtaking. You need to keep doing this, Eliza. Keep creating, keep expressing yourself. The world needs your art.”

Tears pricked at my eyes, blurring the pages. No one had ever believed in me like that before. Seen me, truly seen me, and thought I was worth something.

“You really think so?” I whispered, hardly daring to hope.

Jo reached out, took my hand in hers. Her skin was warm, her grip strong and sure. “I know so,” she said firmly. “You’re a survivor, Eliza. A fighter. And your art… it’s a testament to that. Never stop believing in yourself. Because I never will. And I know the men here will always believe in you too.”

Something inside me cracked open at her words. I felt raw, exposed, like she had peeled back my skin and glimpsed the fragile heart beneath.

I took a shuddering breath, then began to speak.

“This one,” I said, pointing to the sketch of a girl curled in on herself, “I drew this while thinking about the first time he broke my ribs. I thought I was going to die that night. Thought that was it, you know? But I survived. This is the first time I’ve been able to purge some of that pain, pouring it all out onto the page.”

Jo listened intently, her thumb rubbing soothing circles on my palm. It grounded me, anchored me, gave me the courage to keep going.

“And this,” I continued, flipping to the landscape, “I drew this while thinking about the day I left him. The day I finally broke free. It felt like… like I was being reborn, and at the same time I was terrified. Scared he’d catch me. Worried the Underland MC wouldn’t be as helpful as I’d been told.”

Jo nodded, her eyes shining with understanding. “I know that feeling,” she murmured. “That moment when you realize you’re stronger than you ever thought possible. That you survived the unsurvivable.”

---