Page 60 of Bound By Fury

I slam the lid of my laptop closed, my breathing stilted and struggling as I take a shaking sip of my chai latte.

I’m discombobulated and anxious, and my calf is sore from the bounce, bounce, bouncing on my toes over and over again. There’s only one thing I know that’s guaranteed to slow my heart, to still my hand; there’s only one thing besides the occasional anxiety medication that can truly calm me down.

I whip out my kit. Pull my curls into a topknot, slide on my headphones, roll up my sleeves, angle my sketch pad at forty-five degrees. Line up my mechanical pencil; my HB graphite; kneaded eraser; Sharpie; and black, blue, and red pens.

Today SZA screams in my ears about “Good Days” as I tap the pencil against my lips.

I never know what I plan to draw until I do, until it crawls out of me and is given life on the page. Art for me is life sustaining, and I’ve been dying in its absence. Because class is cool and all, but it can’t replace the act of creating art for the sake of it. For the need of it.

When I finish, I glare down at the page.

A long, homespun skirt that brushes the forest floor. Dirty apron caked in what looks like old blood. Hands made of bone and ash. A tapered waist that widens into shoulders built from years of labor. A face made of shadows. All around her the forest caves in. It feeds on the grief she spills, the breadth of her fury the only balm for the decay that muddies the details, blurs the line between real and not, here and the other side.

I’m there again, in the woods. The memory of what I saw distorting or becoming clearer, I can’t decide. Only this time I’m not alone.

Shrewd eyes and an upturned nose, peeking through the trees with me.

I swear, it’s almost like I can hear her voice, though I have no reference for it.

So soft, I can’t quite make out the words.

Fiona is haunting me, and I don’t even know if she’s dead. I don’t know her at all. And yet…

A shadow casts against my table, obscuring my vision.

I slide my right headphone back and release a heavy sigh.

“Freaky,” Missy says with her nasally, high-pitched voice.

“Do you need something?” I ask, glancing up at her. Though I don’t know why I’m entertaining her when every interaction so far has been so painful. Maybe I’m looking for a fight. Maybe it would be a relief to let out my anger for once instead of shoving it down.

She tosses her icy hair over her shoulder and rolls her eyes. “No, I was just walking past, and you were, like, in a trance. It was weird. You’re being weird.”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think there’s something beneath the haughty curl of her lip and the annoyance on her face—something more akin to… concern?

“What is that a drawing of anyway?”

I flip the paper over and pin it down with my hands. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Fine,” she says, sucking her teeth before turning away.

Stop her.

I freeze. The voice, still so quiet, but clear enough to decipher.

“Actually! Could you, um, sit for a second? I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

“Uh… oh… kay…?” she mumbles, sliding into the booth across from me.

I steeple my fingers beneath my chin. “So, um…”

The voice doesn’t come again. Instead it’s like images are being superimposed onto my thoughts. Missy in the dining hall talking about how Fiona didn’t run away. Missy with the flyers. Missy being the only one who seems to give a shit about the missing girl.

“I just, I wanted to ask you about Fiona.”

Her shoulders stiffen, any minute amount of candor on her face immediately shuttered.

I hold up my hands, palms out. “I know it’s probably wild of me to ask, but there’s something familiar about her. I’ve been wondering if maybe I knew her somehow…”