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My grip tightens around the cup until the rim buckles. An alarm buzzes from the nurses’ station, signaling lunch rotation, and the hallway fills with movement again. Patients drift from rooms, staff murmur into radios, and somewhere beyond, a door slams shut. I pull my sleeves down over my wrists, having no appetite for the beige canteen food and plastic forks today.
Passing two orderlies on the way back to my room, they both give me the same careful glance as usual. Marcus nods at me as if we’re friendly, as if he didn’t stand outside my bathroom door this morning while I brushed my teeth with a staff-issued toothbrush because he sensed my mood was souring. When I exited, I held up both wrists so he could see that I’ve gone yet another day without doing something foolish, and his responding nod was filled with useless pity. One of these days, I might just snap and do that foolish something just to give them something to stare at, but that would be counterproductive.
My room sits at the end of the west corridor, close enough to the nurses’ station that they can hear if I ever so much as raise my voice a decibel too loud. That’s where they put the high-risk hostages. My door never fully closes, my bed is bolted to the floor, my mattress is a rock-hard piece of vinyl, but at least I have my sketchpads.
I drop onto the bed cross-legged, dragging the familiar weight of bound paper onto my lap. Every fifteen minutes, an orderly checks on me. Sometimes they knock, sometimes they don’t. I barely pay them any attention, answering their questions like I’m reciting the same script.
Yes, I ate. No, I don’t need anything. Yes, I understand why the precautions are necessary. No, I’m not a danger to myself right now. As the door clicks back into its almost-closed position, I stare down at the page I started yesterday. Meg’s face stares back at me in charcoal and shadow, all sharp cheekbones, hollow eyes, tight mouth.
I hate how easily I remember every detail. How I know the slope of her jaw, the stubborn tilt of her chin, the wildness of her gaze from merely seeing her across a room. My fingers press darker beneath her eyes, smudging the charcoal to hollow out her eyes even further.
For hours, I sit in that stupid room in those stupid gray sweats, with charcoal under my nails like the boy I used to be before Nicholas Calloway got his hands on me, drawing the girl I hate because there is something all too familiar in her eyes.
When Marcus appears in the doorway again, I flip the sketchpad closed before he can see her face. He notices because he’s good at his job, but just like every time he watches me shower, he has the good sense not to mention it.
“You good, Reid?” he asks, and I almost laugh. How can I be good in a padded cream room where the windows don’t open and I’m not allowed shoelaces on my canvas shoes? Then I remember the sarcasm Meg gave in the session, and at the risk of sounding like her, I swallow the retort.
“Yeah,” I reply calmly, giving him a small, practiced smile. “All good here.” He starts to leave when I suddenly push to my feet, tucking the sketchpad beneath my arm. “Hey, Marcus? I was thinking I might talk to the medical director, plead my case on getting out of here. Think you could put in a good word for me?”
There’s a pause between us, a lump forming in my throat. I despise asking for help, but I’m not above putting my pride aside for personal gain. I’ve done my duty. I’ve stayed, I’ve watched over her from a distance. I didn’t make any promises beyond that, but she’s alive, at the very least.
Marcus considers my request before nodding, pulling the door mostly closed. The hallway light spills across the floor, a thin strip seeming to shine against the pages of my sketchpad. Tucked within them are the versions of Meg I’ve witnessed. Fragmented, disjointed pieces that she’s failing to hide. Those are the sides of her I need to worsen. Those are the sides of her I can work with.
Chapter Two
Returning to Hollowbrook Academy should feel more like coming home than exchanging one prison for another. My entire life, I’ve been caged. Trading one scenery for the next, each draped in gold leaf and rich mahogany. Ever since I can remember, my mother has jumped from one rich man to the next until she finally found one who wanted to marry her. And me? I was expected to adapt, and that’s exactly what I did.
I adapted into the very thing she and my stepfather hate. The disruptive brat who tainted their precious golden child. It just so happens I wasn’t immune to his charm either, and now I’ve thoroughly corrupted him in ways that would make Nicholas Calloway’s head explode. I might like to see that at close range one day, brain matter splattering all over his office walls, but first, I need to let Everest play his perfected role. As soon as we graduate, we’re out of here, free from the burdens his last name brings.
Gliding to a stop outside of a narrow building tucked behind the faculty residences, I grunt a thanks to the family driver. He doesn’t pay me any attention, and definitely doesn’t get out to help me with my bags the way he would if it were Everest in the back seat. Slamming the trunk shut, I take a step back and swiftly smash my foot into the taillight. See? Full brat mode. The crunch of the glass is music to my ears, shattering onto the ground in fragmented pieces. Damn, it feels good to be wearing real shoes again.
The driver doesn’t react. He isn’t paid enough to reprimand me in the way Nicholas sees fit. The car rolls down the road, and I turn to face the new residence I’ve been assigned. Like the rest of campus, Hawthorne House captures gothic stonework, manicured lawns, and a student body rich enough to pretend cruelty is a personality trait. Glancing over the tall windows that I doubt open, I release a long sigh. If Everest had known I’d ultimately be moved further away from him, would he have made the same decision? Most likely.
My allocated room is on the second floor near the end of a quiet hallway shrouded in fresh paint and lemon polish. Pushing the door open, the sight takes me back before a slither of warmth trickles through my cold, dead heart. He’s been here. The evidence of him is everywhere, subtle in the ways that others wouldn’t count as romantic, but I do.
The love is in the small details. How my largest easel is angled toward the window. The stack of stretched canvases propped against the wall is organized by size, the glass jars lined up on the desk with brushes sorted by shape and bristle width. A metal case of charcoal rests beside my old sketchpads, with a brand new one placed on top and wrapped with a red bow. My chest aches. One day, he’ll be standing here too, placing his gift into my hands and pressing a kiss to my cheek. One day we won’t have to hide anymore.
Closing the door with my back, I pause for the briefest moment. How can something so simple as the click of a latch feel so incredible? Right now, it doesn’t matter how many counselors, tutors, or trustees have been passed my file, deeming me as a flight risk. That’s a tomorrow problem.
Pushing myself upright, I dump my bag on the bed and wander past the shelves lined with paints. Oils are separate from acrylics, inks tucked safely in a drawer underneath, palettes cleaned, rags folded. There’s even the battered stool from my old studio across campus beside the easel, despite the fact that one leg is uneven and it creaks whenever I shift my weight.
Everything is exactly where I like it, and that’s when I fully understand what I’m looking at. Everything before me is an apology. Everest’s way of throwing money at something and hoping it sticks like a band-aid. I guess that makes me some overpriced whore.
Beyond the window, which doesn’t open as predicted, life bleeds back into campus. Students cross the courtyard in clusters, laughing too loudly, shouldering bags and tossing gossip back and forth. There’s a distinct spirit about them, as if their favorite subject to talk about has returned, and I suppose she has.
Somewhere in this academy, Meg is back on familiar territory. I just hope she is as far away from me as possible. I’ve done my part, I’ve watched her struggle to grasp what recovery is supposed to look like, I’ve witnessed her splintering in my dreams. Dare I say, she has become a certain muse of mine, the charcoal drawings in my sketchpad becoming far too familiar with her brooding expression. But that’s over now. I’m done with that, and with her.
The first knock arrives before I have even taken my sketchpads from the duffel. A faculty liaison with light brown hair and a clipboard introduces herself as Ms. Henderson. Her voice is too bright as she relays the rules of my transitional accommodation and wellness-supported program. As my schedule has been adjusted for reduced academic pressure, I’m expected to attend weekly check-ins with Counselor Ivers and request permission to attend large-scale campus events. She is also passionate that while no one wants me to feel watched, Hollowbrook takes student safety very seriously. AKA, don’t be a public risk to myself or anyone else. Got it.
I nod at all the right prompts, keeping my expression neutral. I don’t tell her I have spent my entire life being watched, or that when people say ‘it’s for your own protection,’ they really mean, ‘stay in line or else.’ By the time she leaves, I have agreed to everything and meant none of it. I last another twenty-six minutes before I reach for my sketchbook and start drawing.
Nothing serious. Simply charcoal and paper, like I’m used to. Just a quick and dirty sketch where the side of my hand smudges over the page that settles the unease pulsing between my ears. I tell myself I’m sketching the long rectangular shape of the window, crooked ivy pressing against the glass, but the lines change beneath my fingers. The window becomes a backbone. The ivy becomes hair. The shadows become a ribcage that is all too familiar.
I can’t pinpoint at what point I moved beyond simply drawing Meg’s face and experimenting with her naked form. Accuracy doesn’t have a place in my sketchbooks, each sketch becoming more deformed than the last. I’m not drawing the exterior Meg wants the world to see, I’m drawing the truth. The reality of who she really is now laid bare on the page.
Finishing with a gasp of realization, I stare down at the shape of her half-hidden face until the charcoal stick cracks between my fingers. I can let this go now, I need to for my own sanity. Somewhere deep within my duffel, my phone buzzes.
Frowning, it takes me a moment to place the sound. It’s been so long since I had my phone, I didn’t bother doing much more than turning it on and noticing a distinct lack of communication. Hence, I’d chucked it into my bag and forgotten about it. Locating it, a single message appears on the screen.
