Page 29 of Stalker's Toy

I hear her gasp as her knees hit the hardwood.

She gets up, looking embarrassed as I stare down at the work in front of me.

A woman, engulfed in flames, screaming as the fire tears through her.

A startling piece of work, black lines scribbled with a violent intensity I didn’t know she possessed.

A drawing that captures a familiar, destructive beauty.

I stare at the piece, unmoving, forgetting for a moment the human who made it.

It's chaotic, imperfect, imbued with the kind of impulse that tears people to shreds.

I know this impulse.

I’ve felt it numerous times.

I watch Mia shift beside me.

Her thin hands tremble as they come to rest on the edge of the paper.

Silvery scars trace up her arms, disappearing under sleeves of black.

I hear her voice again, hear it speak a soft, breathless profanity as she stands back, stunned.

My lips curl slightly.

I'm impressed by the work and her reaction to it.

Her gaze bounces from me to the painting and back, disbelief spreading across that pale face.

She’s quiet as she tries to process what I’ve seen.

What I might say.

Finally I break the silence, the fire between us burning hotter than before.

“I had no idea,” I say. It’s honest and cruel, and I like it.

Her green eyes blink slowly, then rapidly.

She swallows hard, the first crack of doubt splintering through her.

“I’m sorry,” she stammers. “I didn’t mean?—”

I cut her off before she can backpedal any further. “What was your inspiration?”

I want to see how far she'll go, how much more she'll let slip before she gathers herself.

She says nothing… yet.

I guide her over to an empty easelin the corner.

Mia moves with me, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, those wide eyes glancing sideways at my hands on the paper.

When we reach the easel, I set the drawing under a focused spotlight, bringing its chaos into sharp relief.

I stand back and admire the raw beauty of it.

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