Chapter 7 - Callum

Stone saw me. Again.

But this time was different.

This time, I’m not sure what it is he saw. Or what he thinks he saw.

Because the truth is my deepest, darkest secret.

If I’m lucky, all he thinks he saw was weakness again. The poor, scared little boy who found his stepdad brutally murdered in the middle of the night. The horror-stricken, traumatized version of me I probably should be after an experience like that.

The truth is that’s not who I am at all.

I still have trauma, sure. The nightmares and shadows are proof of that. But that’s for an entirely different reason.

I hated Stone when he saw how weak I was because I was weak. Now, I hope that’s all he saw. The lie to cover up the truth.

As I sit in the center of my bed with my legs crossed, I’m surrounded by loose pages from multiple different sketchbooks I’ve owned over the years. They all show the same image, drawn over and over. The same picture I drew five years ago while sitting on those steps, staring down at my stepdad’s corpse.

Some are more zoomed in, details of his mutilated face drawn in intricate lines. His one open, lifeless eye peering up from the page, the other so mangled it looks like a mess of scribbles. Flesh and fat and tendons hanging off in shreds. Scraps of a man who was hardly human.

The real truth of what Stone was looking at when our eyes were locked?

I loved it.

I loved it too fucking much.

Not just the death but the beautiful brutality of it. The raw freshness of it. The way the blood sparkled in the dim light, how the scent of it settled deep in my lungs. The violence. The sense of a life leaving this plane, shuffling off its mortal coil.

I wanted to draw it again. I wanted to use that outline figure of the skull to copy all the horrific details, the red pencil to shade it in with blood.

So that’s what I did when I got home this afternoon. The new sketch lies in front of me, covered in even more red than my lab assignment was when I came out of whatever had taken hold of me.

As I stare down at it, I realize it’s not as satisfying as it once was.

The deeper truth is that I want to do more than just draw it. I want to see it again, experience it again. Not even my stepdad’s death. Just…death.

I’ve wanted that so badly for the past five years that I’ve thought about—

I slam my sketchbook shut, trapping those dark ruminations within its pages.

I’m not that person.

I’ll never give into that particular darkness inside of me.

I can’t even think about it without having a fucking panic attack.

Maybe I’m still weak after all.

The door to the apartment opens and shuts, and I quickly scramble to pick up the dozen or so sketches littering the bed. I get them all tucked into my secret book and just finish shoving it beneath my pillow when my bedroom door is pushed open. I stupidly left it cracked, so I can’t blame Jesse when I see him standing in the doorway.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at practice?” he asks, his bag still slung over his shoulder.

“Yeah.” I run my hand through my hair and tug at the roots at the nape of my neck. “I let Coach know I wasn’t going to make it today. Had to come home early because I was feeling a bit sick in class.”

“Oh, that sucks. Need me to make you some soup or something?”

“Nah, man. Thanks, but I’m good. Just gonna take it easy and study.”

He nods. “Alright. I gotta do the same. Just let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Jesse leaves, closing the door until it clicks shut.

I let out a breath and peer down at my pillow. I swear I can hear the sketches whispering my name—a low, deep echo of a voice.

For some reason, it sounds like Stone.

Turning my back on it, I grab my bag and drag it to me. I pull out my textbooks along with another of my sketch pads, realizing I’m missing my lab manual. I must’ve left it back in the classroom.

“Fuck.”

I push my school books out of the way and pick up the pad. Scooting backwards, I pluck a pencil off my nightstand—they’re fucking everywhere—and lean back against the headboard.

I really should be studying, but after the episode I had, I’m exhausted. Drained. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate no matter how hard I tried. I’d sleep if I wasn’t worried about nightmares.

So I open my sketch pad instead.

Until the tip of the pencil hit the page, I had no idea what I was going to draw. But once it’s moving across the paper, an image starts to form as though my subconscious already knew.

A few minutes later, a set of eyes are peering up at me. Even though there’s no color, I know exactly who they belong to.

Reaching over to my nightstand again, I open the drawer and rummage around until I find an old box of colored charcoal pencils. It’s similar to the one I gave Stone in class—the cardboard box worn, most of the pencils sharpened down at least halfway.

I take out the green and gray pencils and start shading in the irises until they’re the right color.

A forest in the fog.

I had that thought before, and now it gives me an idea.

Using the gray, I lightly draw in silhouettes of trees along the bottom rim of both irises.

When I’m finished, I prop my pad against my knees and stare at the image of Stone’s eyes on the page. Now they really do look like a forest in the fog.

Why do his eyes have to be so fucking beautiful?

He kind of smelled like that too. Woodsy. Like pine maybe. And something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

Another thing happened today while Stone held my face in his hands, those eyes holding me captive.

He saw me, and… I didn’t hate it .

Not this time.

I didn’t want him to stop.

I thought maybe it was just because of the state I was in, that I was only craving the comfort he was offering. That it was just because it was him who was guiding me through the attack like he had done it before.

But here I am drawing his eyes just so they can see me again.

I want to rip this page out and keep it in my secret book because the thought of those eyes seeing anyone else the way they’ve seen me…

My phone vibrates on the bed beside me, and I pick it up to see a text from an unknown number.

Unknown Number: Feeling better?

I recognize the area code, one from Pennsylvania. It’s pretty easy to guess who the number belongs to.

Me: How’d you get my number?

Stone: Nate gave it to me because I told him I had your lab manual. Want me to bring it by?

Me: I’ll get it from you in class tomorrow if that’s ok.

Stone: Sure. And you didn’t answer my question.

Looking back to the first text he sent, I run my hand through my hair as I consider how to respond. Or if I even want to.

I start typing, delete it, and start again. Then I delete that too.

Stone: Callum? Please tell me you’re ok.

Stone: Or I’m coming over.

Me: How do you know where I live?

Stone: I have my sources.

Something heavy settles uncomfortably in my chest as I stare down at the texts.

Why the fuck does he care?

Why did it feel like he cares when he was standing in front of me while I was pretty sure those shadows were going to snuff the life out of me?

Stone: Practice just let out. I’m sitting in my car. Where am I going?

More importantly, why do I want to tell him to come over?

Why do I want to see him when part of me still hates him? When there’s so much I have to hide and he’s the only person who’s ever truly seen me?

I hate all these questions I can’t answer.

Me: I’m fine, I swear. I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t mention it again.

Stone: You got it.

I sigh and hit my head back against the headboard.

Why the fuck does he have to be so nice about it?

Then again, I’m the one who’s been the asshole. He’s only ever lashed out when I have, and even then, it hasn’t been every time. He’s let me get away with treating him like shit an awful lot.

I suppose…

Me: But thank you. For today.

Stone: Anytime.

That’s it. I’m determined for that to be the only and last nice thing I say to him.

I toss my phone onto the bed and look back down at the sketch of Stone’s forest eyes. I decide not to rip out the page. At least not for now.

They’re just eyes .

Eyes that have seen me.

Eyes that I now hope haven’t seen beyond the hurt, scared boy.

Because if those eyes saw the truth, would I ever get to see them again?