Page 56 of Paper Thin Love

“If you don’t want your nasty secret getting out, then stop doing it.”

A knot of embarrassment settles in my core.

He glances at me, then at his sketch pad, and continues to draw.

“Let me see yours?” I protest, sounding like a petulant child.

“No.”

“How can you sound so emotionless at times, but then speak so proudly?” I blurt out.

His lip tugs up.“It’s called talent.” He glances at my sketch pad as if to mock my lack of skills.

I roll my eyes, grab the pad, and start a new page, this time trying the charcoal pencil. As soon as I pick it up, a black, dusty residue is left on my finger. At first, I want to drop the charcoal and wash my hands clean again. Instead, I freeze and look at the stains.

“Looks like you found your medium of choice,” Dash comments.

“What?” I ask, unable to look away from the residue on my fingertip. I don’t know why, but it’s so captivating.

“You connected with the charcoal.” He replies. I finally look at him.“Makes sense because inside, you’re a mess. Now you can control the mess on your paper,” he adds without looking up from his drawing.

Stop looking at him! I can’t.

He’s so intense, like an eclipse that blinds you; you know you shouldn’t look, but you do because you think one second won’t hurt. One second is all it takes to alter the course of your life. It makes me want to act out, grab his sketchbook, and tear it to shreds.

“You’re so annoying,” I mutter as I drop the charcoal and sketch pad. I grab my backpack and dig for my headphones, shoving them into my ears with so much force it might have popped my eardrum.

“The truth often is. That’s why so many of us choose to ignore it,” he replies before I can block out his voice with my music.

I roll my eyes and put Spotify on shuffle.“My Soul I” by Anne Leone comes on. I grab the messy charcoal and start to try to draw the shapes again. When it comes to adding the shadows, I push the charcoal hard into the paper; some of it crumbles and breaks. It’s a perfect reflection of me—dirty, broken, a mess. So opposite from when I dance. Ballet is clean and choreographed.

I push harder, too hard. My finger slips, and the black lines go outside the shape. I purse my lips, growing frustrated but also feeling free, so free that I don’t realize what I’m doing until the entire page is colored black. My entire palm is filthy from the charcoal. I’m panting by the time I realize what I have done.

I toss the sketch pad down on the table and look at my hands. I feel a strange high that is equal to when I poke my flesh with the needle. It’s different, though; with the needle, I feel in control, but then I feel guilty; with the art, I feel wild and free, chaotic. I suppose that’s control. I wait for the guilt to hit me, but it doesn’t.

I didn’t think that’s what I liked, but I think I do. It’s a different form of control, allowing yourself to make mistakes, be messy, filthy even.

The song is suddenly paused. I look up to see Dash holding my phone.“Good. You snapped.”

“I thought you wanted me to feel control, not lose it.”

“Part of finding control is losing it, Mila. You have to run free in order to know how strong you are,” He states so seriously. I think he must have been a psychologist in another life.

Slowly, he paints a playful grin on his face; then, he selects a new song for me to listen to.“Devil Like Me” by Rainbow Kitten Surprise. Dash sets down my phone and continues to work on his drawing. I just watch him sitting there for the entire song. It’s the lyrics of the song that make my chills have chills. He knows he’s the devil, but the song suggests he cries, too. What’s even more disturbing is the lyric that questions if the devil cries when the girl dies on the inside.

Dash King, does my pain, my broken, hurting state, my slow death in my current life cause you to feel too deep?

Chapter 23

Mila

I attempt to draw still life again, but I’m so emotionally and mentally exhausted that I only manage to draw the circle and start to apply some simple shading to it. I persistently glance at Dash. I can’t resist it.

I need to stop and establish some boundaries. Dash has worn away my soil, and my foundation is crumbling. I cannot build shields to protect my heart or mind from him.

Mrs. Jones makes her way to our table when the class is almost finished. I try to remove my headphones, knowing that I’m leaving stains from the charcoal all over my ears.“Let’s see.” Mrs. Jones grins as she takes my sketchbook.

The page she’s looking at is the completely black one. I gulp.“That was a mistake. The previous page is better,” I mutter, feeling exposed and vulnerable.

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