Page 2 of Possession

“Why do you draw such sad things?” she asked as she pushed a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear. It was then I noticed her hand was shaking.

“I just draw what I see.” I draw sadness, evil, hate, love… you.

Her feet fidgeted inward as her eyes sparked with questions and her brow knotted. “Don’t be late. Mr. Ferris is giving a pop quiz. My friend, Lana, has him first period.” She fought her nerves by biting her lip.

There were a million things I wanted to say, to ask, but I’d learned the normal social shit. “You can’t just blurt what you’re thinking, little bro.” “Smile, Declan.” “Just say hello, shake hands, and move on.” “Don’t stare.” “Stop whispering.” The words of my family embedded in my brain as I stared at the one thing I’d ever wanted, and I’d never have.

“Thanks for the heads up.” It sounded normal in my head, and when her lips spread farther I chanced a smile, as well.

She nodded, and her friend called to her again, my eyes fell from hers to the paper, to the misinterpretation of her eyes. She hesitated for a moment, but once she walked away I raised my head. Her heat still hovered around me, and the smell of clean air filled my lungs.

It was just as the door to the lunch room shut that I noticed the quiet. Not one word whispered, not one sound rumbled in my thoughts. I’d taken pills for the past year, therapy, priests… but Paige… she silenced them, she brought the still, simple silence with her, and only in her absence would I feel the weight of my depression; the chatter of my demons.

She’s salvation.

The bass of the club vibrated in my chest as I sipped from my glass of water. At times I wished I could drink. I wished I could lose myself in a bottle, a glass, a moment, but I’d never be like him, like my father, and the meds I took didn’t mix well with alcohol. Instead, I’d sit in a dark corner and sketch, just like always, just like when I was a kid. My subjects changed. My landscapes more urban. I’d traded beauty for realism. Tradedher, for fantasy. Traded reality for fiction. It was open mic night at Bellows. The wannabe hip-hop kings of Salt Lake made an appearance. White boys bred on wealth and luck. The sideways hats, the low-rise jeans—it was hard not to laugh. On occasion, I’d be surprised. Someone with actual talent would grace the stage, and I’d stop what I was doing, catch a glimpse of purity. Tonight the pickings were slim.

Tonight I cowered in my corner and sketched my latest dream. My work over the years had become darker. Like film noir on paper. The colors chosen were always specific, but the black ink, the slate color of my pencils, they covered the paper with smooth illusions and shadowed flickers of my thoughts.

Can’t you hear them, they’re whispering.

As an adult it was easier to ignore the voices and to convince the doctors that I was actually hearing shit. Eventually, I got a new label: Schizoaffective. My meds helped mostly with my depression, but tamed the beast inside my head enough to survive the day-to-day. I felt like a zombie most days, rowing through the motions of life, and I hated it. Lately though, the more I thought about Paige, the more they erupted past my walls of defense I’d spent so many years building.

I lifted my eyes and scanned the room. Two younger women were sitting at the bar. Their eyes trained on the frat boy on the stage giving some cheesy fucking rendition of Eminem’s “Lose Yourself”. They indeed were whispering, giggling, and smiling at each other as if they had a plan. But, there was only one of him and two of them. My lips twitched with a smirk. Sometimes being an observer wasn’t half bad. The one on the right was tall and curvy with big tits, but she was trying too hard with her red lipstick, low-cut tank top, and short skirt. The other girl was soft, small, and her eyes held a certain sadness I’d seen a lot of in this place. She needed that guy on stage for her own security. Needed him to tell her she was special, to make her feel something other than just being the friend of the girl who always got everything. She’d tell herself she’d never have a chance with Captain Tool Bag on stage because she’d never be easy enough, pretty enough.

You see the world, Declan… you see it.

My throat narrowed and my jaw clenched. The voice in my head mocked me with Paige’s words. I was so intent on sifting through my own thoughts that I hadn’t noticed the small, shy girl noticing me. Her smile was tentative as she caught me staring. I didn’t have the heart to drop my gaze, to let her know I wasn’t really looking at her, that I was lost in the haze that was Declan-fucking-O’Connell. I lifted my chin at her and gave her a slight smile. I was polite, if nothing else, and I brought my attention back to the drawing.Hereyes always had a way of showing up in every piece of art I’d created since the day I met her. Whether it was the actual shape, or the color, or just the feeling they’d produced in my soul, they would bloom on the canvas, the paper, my flesh. My pencil stopped moving, and I turned my arm over. Scrolled in thick black ink, the words I’d heard earlier were there…You see the world. The O inside ‘you’ was in the shape of her eye. The ghostly light blue of her iris was the only color I had on my body. The rest of my ink was black or with shades of gray and white.

I fell into the pupil and let the power of her stare swallow me whole.

“Do you write comics?” a quiet voice trembled.

I closed my eyes briefly, just for a second, to gather myself before raising my gaze. She had a Meat is Murder t-shirt on with tight, dark blue skinny jeans. Her hair was black and shiny under the dim lights of the bar. She was shorter up close, maybe not even five feet.

“I’m a huge nerd for all things comic book-related.” She bit her glossy lip at the corner and surveyed my drawing.

I’d barely started it. The alleyway was dark and shaded by nightfall. I’d depicted a looming figure in the background. A set of empty eyes peering from a window. I glanced over her shoulder; her friend had made her move with the shitty watered-down version of Marshall Mathers. He was already standing between her legs, his lips at her ear. Sometimes I wondered what it would be like to lose yourself in a stranger. The girl’s smile started to fall as I brought my attention back to her. The overhead music was loud and it took me a minute to find the words.

“I’m not much of a writer,” I said with little interest in the hope that she’d move along.

Her small hand rested on the table as she sat in the chair across from me.

I want to use you to make myself feel better, make my friend jealous.

I blinked and my eyes landed on her mouth. “Excuse me?”

“I said is it okay if I have a seat?” Her brows narrowed at the expression on my face.

The music, the thin layer of e-cigarette smoke, the pungent odor of vanilla all blended together and fucking confused me. Her voice was too reluctant, and I had a hard time hearing her. She was speaking now. The words flowed from rapid lips, but not a sound broke through the anxious ringing in my ears. I began to tap my foot, breathing through the panic. I didn’t talk to people. Just my brothers, just my clients at the tattoo shop.

“Hey, I think… yeah… you did my brother’s back piece. You work at Avenues Ink, right?” The high keen of her voice broke through the barrier.

I found myself, gave her a nod and a tight smile. “I do.”

Her smile broadened and the white of her teeth felt too clean for this place. “I knew I recognized you. What’s your name?” She leaned in, eager for my words.

I hadn’t been with anyone since Paige. Not one girl. I tried. A year after we’d split, she’d gotten married, and I figured out she would never come back. I’d seen a few chicks, but it always ended at the first kiss. My life, the love I had for her, I’d never find it again, and I fucking hated her for ruining me, for stealing my soul.

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