After a few minutes, John huffed and pushed the paper away. He slammed a thick piece of charcoal down on the table and it broke in two. Gritting his teeth, he picked up the charcoal again and began drawing on the tabletop.
“Uh, that’s not—” I started, then changed my mind. The black marks would wash off easy enough, so no harm done.
The picture he created… it did not resemble much of anything. He worked in jerky motions, frustration getting the better of him quickly. He held the charcoal easily, showing he was left-handed, but his hands and the charcoal obviously weren’t cooperating, judging by the growing sneer on his face. The picture turned out differently than he envisioned. Eventually, the drawing turned into smudged black blobs.
This time, he threw the charcoal across the room.
“I can’t draw,” he said, voice small.
“What were you saying before?” I wondered.
“I thought I could do this.” He slapped a hand down on the charcoal mess decorating the table.
“You also said you felt something.”
“I was wrong. I don’t know how to do this.” He twisted in his seat to face me. “Can we go now?”
Hmm. I watched John’s hand, his fingers now dirty and covered in black powder, tracing idle patterns on the table.
“You don’t know how to draw. So art isn’t part of your past. So what? Is it possible this isn’t about what youcando but what youwantto do?”
“What?” John saw his fingers moving and stopped the motion abruptly. “I need to know who I was and what my life was like before the basement."
"You want to know who you are. This is an answer.” I moved to the charcoal, scooping it up off the floor and gently placing it on the table near him. “We won’t give up on the past, but there’s only so much we can do to learn about who you were before. There’s no limit to what we can do to discover who you arenow."
He stared down at his lap, placing a hand on his thigh before he remembered his hands were stained with charcoal. He rubbed the mark with a relatively clean finger. "What if that’s not enough? Who I used to be was taken away once.”
My heart clenched at the vulnerability he showed me. I wanted to promise it would never happen again, that I’d throw myself between him and any evils of the world that sought to hurt him, but I couldn’t promise that. Only, “I’ll do whatever I can to prevent that from ever happening again.”
I grabbed some more paper, some charcoals and even some colored markers. “In my experience it’s easier to have something worth fighting for instead of battling to find something worth fighting for.”
He sat there quietly for several moments. Then he plucked up another charcoal, putting it right to the paper before thinking again. Instead he turned his other hand over and covered it with black. He pressed his palm to the white paper, leaving an impression. He smiled, quick and bright, before doing it again, soon creating a pattern he saw in his mind.
“It’s kinda fun,” he admitted. “I just wish I were a little better.”
“You’re better than me.”
“That’s not possible. How—" I showed him my clay creation. "Are you doing that to make me feel better?"
"No. "
He smiled. "Wow, you suck."
I’d investigated some fascinating cases in the past, even for a supernatural detective. This mystery still excited me more than the rest. I couldn't wait to learn more.
~
John
Macaroni and cheese is awesome.
A local cafe near the rehab center served their macaroni with white cheddar, broccoli, and chopped bacon pieces on top. Nothing in the world ever tasted better.
“Macaroni is so awesome, why does anybody eat anything else? Because they’re dumb. That’s why. There’s no other explanation.”
Temple had other theories. “Not everybody can eat the exact same macaroni nine times in a row.”
“I feel bad for them.” I smiled and shoved a bite of cheesy goodness into my mouth.
