The low groan and restlessness made me back up.
He needed his rest.
Instead, I kept going down the hall to the larger room at the end. My breath caught at the pitch dark walls. Who the hell painted their walls black?
Dutch evidently.
As I stepped deeper inside, I noticed the table…desk? It was old and scarred in a deep chocolate color with fascinating nicks all over it. I traced my fingers around the coffee rings and the scuffs at the edge of the laptop.
I pushed the computer away from the edge and sure enough the trails said it happened often.
A leather journal sat beside the laptop. The urge to open it was overwhelming, but I left it be. I’d have been pissed if someone looked at my journal. Of course mine were more drawings than words, but the privacy was what mattered.
I wouldn’t want my brothers to see the drawings I made of them when they pissed me off. I embraced beauty in all its forms, but allowed myself to let my twisted musings free in there.
Beside the laptop was a jackpot of chargers plugged into a power strip. I plugged in my phone and set it on top of his laptop. However, the little wooden box with dust on it was too much to resist. I lifted the top and was unprepared for the pile of chalk inside.
Then realized the walls were done in chalkboard paint. And a rolling chalkboard was tucked next to one of the bookcases.
I snatched a piece with a delighted laugh. Leaning my elbow on the desk, I drew my new favorite porcupine as if it was peeking out from behind the power strip. Then put a little sign in his hand that said: smile.
I stepped back and looked at the walls.
Who was I to resist such a canvas?
SIX
Dutch
My muscles flexedand burned as I pulled my way across the glassy lake. I kept pushing harder, digging for more with each pull of the oar. The burn was the first thing to make me feel alive in too many months to count.
I’d found the perfect rhythm of water and resistance. The glide into the water and the release as the scull shot backward with the power of each stroke. Peace hummed under my skin like a song.
I dug deeper, using my thighs to give an extra length to my momentum.
I didn’t even feel tired.
Maybe I could travel in reverse enough to turn back time to the before.
When my words made sense.
When I didn’t second guess every moment.
When my friend hadn’t stolen from me.
I’d have given him my entire fortune over my words.
I could make more money.
The burn increased as my speed kicked up another notch. Foliage and snow blurred in my periphery. A mix of SanFrancisco and the new alien place I called home. Icy rocks dotted with snow and manuscript pages half burned with words that didn’t make sense.
Still I pushed.
Still I sliced my oars through the water.
Still I raced away from my truth.
My legs ached with each stretch and bend as I demanded more from my body and the scull.
