I’d thought maybe drawing would help, the way it did back in the bad ol’ days of high school. That maybe if I tried hard enough, I’d be okay.

But I was wrong.

Which I guess shouldn’t surprise me. After all, this thing isn’t some love-struck teenage boy’s tribute sketch of Shirley Manson, a’ la “Angelfish”. This isn’t some simple rendering of Natasha Romanova. Or The Firemen. Or Kowalski- or any of the other imaginary characters that kept me company back then. Nor is it an escape. Not like those others were.

There was a darker motivation behind this one. Something a little more… selfish.

What did I once say to Detective Mitchell? About the twin lessons I didn’t think I’d ever learn?

“Be careful what you wish for…”

“Let sleeping dogs lie…”

Well I guess I still haven’t. Because I’ve kept on drawing, even though I know I should stop.

And now? This thing is a black hole. Sucking, dragging at my heart and my mind, with dark, far-reaching tentacles that stretch not across miles, but backward in time. I didn’t feel them at first; they’d coiled themselves around so very gently, so quietly and smooth, while I’d made those first tentative lines on the paper. In much the same way that she’d once coiled herself so gently, so quietly and smooth around my life. Before she’d begun to squeeze.

So no, drawing hasn’t helped. In fact it’s done quite the opposite. The more I work on this picture of her- of that night… the more I realize that I’m still not okay, that I still want her to do it all again.

And I can tell by the way she watches me, with that look in her eyes as she sits there wearing next to nothing on that chair at the other end of the room, keeping tabs on my progress while daring me to go on…

That she does too.

-Curtis Weaver 3/19/08

(***Curtis Weaver is the protagonist of our 1st novel, “Krissy’s Notebook”. See more of his story by clicking HERE.)

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