My mother and father looked at the drawings like they were evidence of a crime.
"This isn't normal," my mother said to my father.
"I'm worried she might be depressed. She really does have potential, but this is not what we would consider…well, it’s not what I would expect. Maybe she is struggling with dark thoughts," Mrs. Lycet said gently.
"I'm not depressed," I said.
They all looked at me like I'd said something obscene.
"Roxy, this isn't healthy," my father said. "Drawing death and horror like this is not normal.”
"It's real."
"You need to draw something else, something positive," my mother said. I think her denial was to hope a quick harsh word and demand would fix it all. It wouldn’t. In my eyes positivity was a huge lie to mask reality.
But, in order to prevent them from banning me from drawing, I stopped showing my work at school. However, in secret, I continued.
I set up an account on a dark web marketplace, one of those places where people bought and sold things that weren't allowed in polite society. I posted my drawings of pencil sketches of rot and they sold. Not for much at first, only twenty dollars here, fifty there. But people wanted them. I was relieved to see people who understood that darkness wasn't something to be afraid of, but something to be preserved and celebrated.
By the time I was seventeen, I'd saved three thousand dollars.
Enough to buy a van.
Enough to leave.
CHAPTER ONE
ROXY
Four years later
The fox has been dead for maybe three days.
I can tell by the way the flies have settled into the carcass, the way the fur has started to lose its luster, becoming dull and matted where the blood has dried. The eyes are open, clouded over in a milky white, but still there. That's what I love about the fresh ones. The eyes. They hold something the older corpses don't. A memory of what it felt like to see, a memory of the end.
I crouch on the shoulder of Route 89, my knees pressing into the gravel, and adjust my sketchpad against my thighs. The sun is setting behind the red rocks, casting the landscape in a burnt orange glow that makes the fox look almost beautiful, like it is alive, resting in a peaceful sleep. But I know better. Beauty is just another lie people tell themselves to avoid looking at the truth.
And the truth is always ugly.
While I suck on my cherry lollipop, my pencil moves across the paper in quick, confident strokes. I've drawn death enough times to know its shapes by heart, the way a body collapses in on itself, the strange angles limbs take when there is no life left to hold them up. That emptiness that replaces whatever spark had been there before. People don't like to look at this kind of stuff.They'll drive right past and maybe glance over, then look away quickly like the sight might contaminate them.
But I can’t look away. I never could when it comes to death. When it comes down to endings, and what is left behind.
The cassette player in my van is blasting Depeche Mode, the sound drifting out through the open door.Enjoy the Silence. How fucking perfect. I only listen to 80s music, and anyone who judges can fuck off. It’s my vibe. I hum along as I work, adding shadow to the fox's open mouth, noting the way its tongue lolls out, dark and swollen. There was something so innocent and honest about death. It didn't pretend. It didn't smile when it didn't mean it or laugh at jokes that weren't funny. It justwas.
That's more than I could say for most people.
I've spent my whole life watching people lie. My parents lied when they said they'd be home for dinner, then didn't show up until I was already asleep. My classmates lied when they said they wanted to be friends, then whispered about how weird I was behind my back. Teachers lied when they said I had potential, then looked at my drawings with barely concealed disgust, like I was sick for seeing the world the way I did.
Maybe I was sick. But at least I never wore a mask to please others, to hide from reality.
Removing the sucker from my mouth, I lean in closer to the fox, studying the way the maggots have started their work in the softer tissue. Nature's cleanup crew. Everything has a purpose, even in death, actually, especially in death. I use my retro polaroid camera and snap a few photos at different angles, close-ups of the decay, the way the light hits the matted fur. These will sell well. I have buyers who appreciate this kind of thing. People who understand that darkness isn't something to be afraid of but is something to be documented, preserved andcelebrated.
The general art world didn't want my work. Too disturbing, they said. Too morbid. But the private collectors? They pay goodmoney for this kind of thing. For rawness. And I give it to them, one drawing at a time.
I add more detail to the sketch with the delicate bones of the fox's paw, the way its tail curves against the asphalt. My hoodie is bright pink today, neon bright, a middle finger to the darkness I’m documenting. I like the contrast. It’s funny the way people look at me with confusion, like they can't reconcile the girl in the colorful clothes with the girl who draws dead things on the side of the road.
Good. Let them be confused. Confusion is closer to truth than certainty ever was.
