Lunaticus

15

He used both of his hands to hold the pad, caging me against his chest. Making me look down so that he wouldn't see the tears forming in my eyes.

Wordlessly, he flipped the first page. It was dated ten years back, the first time I got it. It was a fairly normal picture. Me, my father, my mother, and my baby brother. Four stick figures next to the outline of a square house with a triangular roof. Three hills looping behind with the sun shining in the sky.

A happy day, I had titled it.

Next page. Reasonably better. No longer outlines, but bodies brimming with a ton of crayons. Yellow to depict me, and pink for my friend Mia. We both had wings because I thought it was cool. Mum was smiling as she rotated a wooden spoon in a pot atop the page.

A dream to fly.

A couple of more like these. I even found myself smiling fondly, remembering the memories. Ah, the good old days. A felt a handful of words clearing in my mind, something I had read somewhere.

I wish there was a way to know you're in the good old days before you've actually left them. I didn't realize I had said that out loud until Lyell settled the book and hugged me tightly.

"I think this is enough for today."

"N-no," I wiped my tears with the back of my hand. "This has to be today. There might not be another chance." Or a better way. For a way to say the words, my mouth will never form.

He kissed my hands and flipped to the next page.

I was fifteen I think. I was trying out charcoal, making portraits. First, there was my mama, a portrait I had titled Cookie Queen, then my father, The best Papa ever!, my brother, Snob with spectacular eyelashes, and then a couple of other people from around the village.

Sixteen. Drawing myself. Using the mirror to create my self-portrait. I was staring intensely at the mirror, my eyes in shadows, unsmiling. It was a bad sketch, in my personal opinion.

"Wow, these are..." I jerked back to reality upon his words. "You are so talented, man. Good Goddess, like this version of you, is so hot. And that too in a school uniform makes me- makes me-"

I chortled. So loud. I was sure someone was about to knock and request me to have a mental evaluation. "You and your-" I sputtered, giggling, "I didn't know you had a fetish, Lyell."

He didn't respond. When I looked back he had his eyes ahead, avoiding mine, though his cheek was tinted the red of fresh spring tomatoes.

My laughter died down after a while. I opened my eyes, right into his.

"Lovely," He whispered. "You look so beautiful when you smile. And I feel like I've won the marathon when I'm the reason behind it."

"You. Are sooo-" I kissed him. "Corny. I can feed the pack for a year straight with that much corn."

"This moment is so perfect." He slowly shook his head. "I don't want to go through your memories anymore. Here is what matters. The now. It doesn't matter what you were, as long you're here with me, right now."

He gave me an endless kiss, and I almost let it go. Then I felt his fingers wander over my stomach, tracing the underlining of my bra. I swallowed.

I was being selfish. Lyell was such a person, he wouldn't let me open up to him if I didn't want to, and wouldn't even ask me to remove my clothing if I felt uncomfortable. He's just give, give, and give, while I remain silent, always holding myself back.

"N-no," I murmured against his lips. "You need to know me. It's more important than you think."

Without replying, he pulled the book into his lap and turned the page. 

It was blank. 

He frowned. "It's empty." 

"Flip until it isn't" 

He did. Around eleven pages later, he came across a picture. 

A girl. Pale in contrast to the vignette of black scrawls framing the page. Her face hid her face, her arm wrapped around her knees. 

Next page. Hands. Two palms facing forward, the fingers clenched. Tiny black dots that looked like ants crawling all over her skin. 

Next page. Mirror. A perfect mirror with a broken girl staring at it with haunted eyes. 

I closed my eyes after that. My heart beat in my head. I pushed his arm away and ran to the window, soaking my skin in the cold air from outside. 

I knew what he must be seeing. One disturbing sketch after another. Broken pieces of me scattered for everyone to see. Twisted, bleak, harrowing. Thank the Goddess I couldn't read his mind. 

I remembered the final portrait I had drawn. When I hand left home. Dead of the night, December twelfth. The wind so cold the ice seemed to seep into my bones. But it was necessary. Nessecary, necessary, necessary. 

I had to leave so they didn't have to. My family didn't have to. He would have made them. I could bet by soul he would have. 

The picture, drawn by me as I hid in the bush, a part of me begging me not to leave, another backing it with pictures of all my childhood nightmares in the form of monsters roaming the woods. 

But I had to. I couldn't take home with me. So I had drawn it. The ochre yellow of the stones, the chimney always breathing out smoke. The lights dead, but I imagined the one in the hallway lit. Our family having dinner. Zach with his head almost glued to the plate, shoving food down his food like he wouldn't have it tomorrow. Me looking out the window, out of the page. 

Papa and mama, looking at both of us, with so much love it almost made me not leave. 

Every day after I left home, I'll add in little details. Like my father's coat hanging in the corner. Mama's featherhat. The warm yellow of the warmpaper. Our little garden outside with the hyacinths. Zacks laundry hanging in the lines. 

I drew and drew and drew. Until I stumbled into a village and someone told me about this pack. I added in the vase the night captain decreed me as a part of the pack. And sometimes, when I would be crying too hard to draw anymore, I'd press the drawing to my heart and let myself believe that  I never left that home. 

Always hiding in the bushes. Waiting for the silhouette, so small you would completely miss it if you weren't me, to dis