Page 66 of Make Me Scream

Stop it.

The Chrysler Building, an icon of Art Deco architecture.

Lane would look dapper as fuck in a pinstripe suit and a fedora, dragging on a hand-rolled cigarette like a gangster from the Roaring 20s.

I sigh, then laugh at myself.

This is so fucked up. I should be focusing on my art. I can fantasize about Lane anywhere, anytime. Is it too early to concede this isn’t working? It’s impossible to tell time in a situation like this, but it can’t have been that long. Lane’s definitely going to be mad if I beg to be let out after… it’s been forty-five minutes, at most.

I trust him to know what he’s doing. If he thinks this will help inspire me, I’ll stick with it, however long it takes. Sometimes the best move an artist can make is putting down the pen or the brush for a little while and giving the mind time to sort out what to do next. Or, one can just have fun and draw or write or sing what feels right.

I tap a button to clear the screen so I can start over, then begin sketching Lane in that pinstripe suit. I’ll draw him again and again, until I get him out of my system. It could take a while.

For the first sketch, I start with the pinstripe suit, and I keep the Manhattan motif, placing him in front of a floor-to-ceiling skyscraper window, peering out on the city below. Next, I change things up: swim trunks on the beach. Of course it’s an intoxicating image, though I actually prefer him in the suit — it fits him better. Somehow I don’t think Lane would be one to grab a board and hit the surf; I’m certainly not.

Then again, art is a great way to imagine what could be possible, like Lane in a New York Yankees uniform, running at full speed toward home plate. Or, Lane as a firefighter, holding an axe, face dark with sweat and soot. Then: Lane on stage at a rock concert, bare arms sleeved in tattoos, belting into the microphone, fingers dancing over the strings of a black, reflective electric guitar.

Is he enjoying this dive into fantasy land? Does he think they’re funny?

Are they at least good?

I’m not going for extraordinary skill in my drawing — I’m using a stylus while lying on my back inside a box. It’s not going to be as good as using pencil and paper. If he likes these, I can draw better versions in the future.

Halfway through my next drawing — Lane in a form-fitting spacesuit, standing on the moon — the power goes out on the tablet. Startled by the sudden darkness I yelp and instinctively press against the lid.

You’re fine, you’re fine.

Did the tablet’s battery run out? It would have warned me, wouldn’t it? No, it hasn’t been that long, has it? A few hours, perhaps. And if I know Lane, he would have charged the damn battery — assuming it isn’t plugged in somewhere.

So what the hell is going on?

“Lane? Can you hear me?”

My mouth is dry — I haven’t spoken out loud in hours. I’ve focused on my drawing so well, I ignored being hungry, thirsty and horny for a long time. Now it all floods back.

“I’m okay in here, but the tablet stopped working. Can you come fix it? I was drawing. I didn’t want to stop.”

I don’t know if he could have replied via the tablet before it went off; I doubt he could now. Hopefully he’s on his way. And if he can’t hear me at all, then when he tries to check on me he’ll notice the issue and come down. I just have to wait.

Closing my eyes, I listen to every sound, hoping to hear footsteps, followed by the rattling of padlocks. All I get is the sound of my own breathing, my growling stomach and my rising pulse.

This is what I’m supposed to be doing, isn’t it? Drawing is great, but I can do that any time. The point of this experiment was to be alone with my thoughts. Unfortunately, that doesn’t lead anywhere good.

What if the tablet went out because the whole studio somehow lost power? What if there’s something horrible going on outside and Lane was hurt? What if he’s in the hospital, unconscious? How long would it take for literally anyone to figure out I was here?

No, don’t be neurotic, Gwen. That’s all ridiculous. It’s probably only been a few minutes. How often was Lane checking? I bet pretty often at first, but once I got on a roll with my drawing maybe he didn’t keep such a close eye.

Did I do something wrong? Should I not have amused myself with cute drawings of Lane? Did he not like them? Should I have taken this more seriously? Is he punishing me? I wasn’t doing anything wrong, and it’s not like him to change the rules in the middle of a lesson.

No, this is just a glitch. Nothing serious. I tap the tablet, hoping to wake it back up, but nothing happens. I feel all around, making sure there isn’t a button I can press to try and restart it, but don’t find one. If I could see, maybe I could find a way to detach the device from the lid, but there’s no chance of that happening. Are the LEDs even still on? They were so dim before I couldn’t tell they even existed; and I still see nothing. It’s completely dark — closing or opening my eyes makes no difference.

I wait as long as I can before shouting, “Lane! Come let me out!” I pound my fist against the side of the sarcophagus, hoping the deep sound will carry better than my voice. “Lane!”

This isn’t right. Lane should have noticed something was wrong by now.

Or am I just mistaking minutes for seconds? Have I lost all perception of time? Am I overreacting? There’s no way to be sure.

“Lane! Let me out of here!”

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