Page 31 of Nightmare

“Western,” I breathe, turning to him. “You painted this?”

He nods.

“I have ... I am blown away. You are so talented. How did you learn to paint with such skill?”

“Long time in prison.”

I don’t answer that as I move around the bike to the other side of the tank. When I reach it, I pause and my heart jumps into my throat. There, on the other side of the tank, is the painted face of a young man, a young man I recognize. He’s staring up at the sky, perfect blue eyes staring into the distance, a happy look on his face. Light surrounds him, fading into the distance as if he’s being called to heaven. I gasp, unable to help myself.

It's spectacular.

“That’s Braithe,” I whisper, keeping my hand pressed to my chest. “Western, this is incredible.”

I look over to him, and his eyes are on the face of Braithe, and for the first time, I see something else in his eyes, I see pain.

It’s in this moment, right here, that I know Western didn’t do it.

I don’t know how.

I just feel it. I feel it to my very core.

“Why didn’t you fight?” I dare to ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes move to mine. He doesn’t answer me.

“Why did you let them lock you away for so long?”

“What makes you think I’m innocent?”

His voice is low, clipped.

“Are you?” I ask, my question direct.

It takes a moment, a long moment, but, slowly, he nods.

As he does, it feels as though my heart is being ripped from my chest.

Knowing that he spent so long behind bars, his life stripped of him, all for something he didn’t do.

“Why didn’t you fight?” I ask again.

“Can’t fight against power.”

His answer leaves so much unsaid, yet it explains everything. The suspicion I’ve had all along—that there are people higher up behind this—becomes clear.

“What happened?” I push.

He doesn’t answer me.

He turns his eyes back to the face on the tank. I follow his gaze, and gently stretch a finger out, running it over Braithe’s perfect face. He was a great looking young man, and he had his whole life in front of him. Someone brutally ripped that from him, and my determination to find out who becomes so strong I find it hard to concentrate on anything else. There is a story here, a story so large, it would send this town into a spiral it couldn’t escape from.

“You could sell your art,” I go on, figuring he isn’t ready to tell me what happened, but grateful I got through to him at all.

Slowly pulling my hand away from the tank, I turn and find myself closer to him than I was anticipating. He has moved closer to me, and now, we’re face to face, my head tipped slightly back as I look up into his eyes. For a moment, oh, just a moment, the world stops. I can’t even hear my own breathing; my heart is thudding against my chest and all the air has been sucked from my lungs.

I feel something, something so strong I can’t deny it, as I stare up at him.

I don’t quite understand what that feeling is, a desperate need to make this better for him or full-blown lust that is burning out of control. Either way, as he looks down at me, I forget how to breathe. Without thought, or even warning, my fingers move on their own, and I find them going to the cross that hangs from his neck. Dragging my eyes from his, my breathing ragged, I hold the cross in my hand and look at it, really look at it.

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