Page 28 of Sinful Skulls
Surely no one is following me now. My father is dead, and Henry didn’t have time to have me followed.
It still has me double checking the lock on the door.
“I have to forget about it. It’s the only way. I shoved my own darkness down. I can shove theirs away too,” I tell myself quietly.
My hands tremble as I block the school’s number and then his. “There, done. It never happened. I don’t need to give it another thought.” I slap my hands together.
I lie back and stare at the ceiling. “It was all just a silly nightmare. None of it was real.”
No matter how much I try to deceive myself, my mind flips through clips from the past week. It was real.
I hop up and grab my bag, digging through it for the small portrait I ripped from his wall.
My fingers hover over her blood-smeared hair. Was this derived from my father’s imagination, or did she pose? Did she do it willingly? I swallow hard, knowing the answer. I don’t need proof. I feel her fear when I look at it.
If I close my eyes, I can see her hand trembling as she holds someone’s heart in the palm of her hand. She might be facing away from me, but I know there are tears in her eyes and a slight sheen of sweat upon her brow. She’s fighting a battle between nausea and unconsciousness. Though neither win, because her terror keeps her trapped in the moment.
She was a student of his.
Young and scared.
I hold my head in my hands as the room spins. I’m so tired, but there is no way I can sleep.
I have to find my biological mother.
I need her. She’s the only one who will believe what I’ve just been through.
Chapter Eleven
Daisy
The coffee maker is getting slower and slower, I swear. I’ve been scouring the internet for the past two days. Day and night. I don’t know how long I’ve been awake. My mind drifts to the final evening I fell asleep on Henry’s couch. Was that the last time I slept? I’m not sure.
I force him from my thoughts as my cup finishes filling.
I sit cross-legged on the bed and stare out the window. It looks hot out there. I wouldn’t know; I haven’t left the hotel since I arrived. My lids blink slowly, but I feel my heart beating fast in my chest. The headache I’ve been battling constantly digs behind my eyes.
I’ve managed to sift through all of my dad’s female students, and I think I know which one is my mother. She’s an artist in California. She even has her own gallery.
I open the laptop, my eyes blurry as I flip through her artwork again. There’s no denying it’s her. It’s not just the technique that’s similar to mine, but it’s also what she chooses to paint.
My fingers trace the ropes she’s painted over the woman’s skin. The way it dimples the flesh of her curves is exquisite. I wonder if my mother used a model, or does this image stem from her imagination alone like mine sometimes does?
No one was supposed to see my paintings … but if this is my mother, she’s more courageous than me. She doesn’t hide her dark side. Her paintings are a mixture of light and dark. She’s an amazing artist.
It just has to be her.
I fall back onto the mattress and force my eyes closed, but yet again sleep evades me.
Maybe I’ll call her. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.
I’ll be straight forward with her.
I have to.
Because if I don’t fall asleep soon, I think I might die from being awake too long. I wonder what the world record is for not sleeping.
I sit up to Google the answer and then count on my fingers. The world record is eleven days.
