Drawing Blood

Chapter Thirty-two

It was a restless night, and I had been unsuccessful in stopping the dreams that came. I had been bothered by what I had seen, what had taken place, and when I woke the next morning, I was soaked with anxiety.

Those events had left me with a bitter taste in my mouth. They had disturbed my peace in the same way a northly wind would stir the glassy surface of a quiet lake. It had been a noxious thing to witness. Offensive to the eye. It had left me feeling withdrawn, reflective; preferring to isolate myself around the grounds of the house and seek comfort in the stillness of the forest, rather than return to the place where it had happened. I would not go back to the store alone, after that. I would struggle to be around Adam, until he made me feel safe again. I would not want to put myself in the same situation. Whatever had seeped into the air that day had been toxic, and had tainted my perception of those I had loved.

I had felt sorry for Luke, and I had been afraid of the whiteness in Adam's eyes. They had reminded me of the way a sharks eyes would roll over white, when they were chewing on their pray. I had wondered what had gone through his mind, when I saw that; what images he was seeing. Luke had merely been an innocent bystander, but had somehow managed to find himself trapped in those jaws, and at the end of that look. He had done nothing, except find himself in the midst of our odd little drama, handed a script he'd had no time to rehearse, then told to go out on the stage and perform. As the main actors, we would have had him confused with our lines, bewildered by our idiosyncratic little sequences; possibly even regretting his compassion, and wishing he had never entered the theatre in the first place. It had been embarrassing at best. At worst, it had been shameful.

We had performed our own roles around him, expecting him to know how to act; and he had tried his best. I suspect he had not been left feeling that way. We carried on, regardless. I, the secret one, who hadn't wanted to be noticed doing the unthinkable, had been on edge and fumbling in my attempts to make things comfortable for him. Annie, charming as always, had been at her most flirtatious, most talkative, unaware that she was bordering on the edge of arrogance, and that she was slowly becoming unlikable. But it had been Adam who had stood out the most. For me, his performance had been worthy of an award. His quiet brooding, the long pauses and sullen glances, the way he had taken to the shadows and observed the 'extra' with distrusting eyes, would have captivated an audience into thinking he was the villain. And conceivably he was. It had been the one thing that had stuck most in my mind, and his execution of that role had eclipsed anything I had ever seen. It was for that reason, I began to suspect there was more between him and Luke than he was letting on.

I was unable to lose those thoughts which had invaded me so cruelly. They lingered, one hour through to the next, growing in strength as the day progressed. It didn't take long before I was wrestling with both my conscience and my sanity. By Thursday, I found myself driving towards the university, in an attempt to put those demons to bed. I had tried to convince myself, I trusted Adam. But it was something buried deep inside me, which refused to listen. It was as though all those niggling doubts which had eaten away at me, had won. They had put up a convincing argument, produced exhibit after exhibit to win me - the jury - over. And as foreman, I had delivered the only plausible verdict I could come to. Adam was guilty. He and Luke knew each other. All I needed to do now, was figure out how.

Adam wouldn't want me to sentence him, and send him down for life. But I knew him well enough to know, he would never hand over any such information so easily. He would only spill his secrets when I reached the point of displaying hatred towards him, or indifference; then, he would throw me a lifeline, satisfying my thirst until I wanted more from him. Everything I needed had been locked away in a room inside his head, and I would never be given the key willingly. It would be like Brighton all over again. If I even tried to approach the subject, he would shut down and pretend I had imagined everything. He would go about his business as usual, as though nothing had happened, and I would remain watching him from afar, wondering what it was that he was keeping from me. My mind, in an attempt to make sense of it all, would latch onto any small clues, any changes to the tone of his voice, or his facial expressions - noting how his eyes would flash amber when certain words were used; or observing his mouth, which formed into a thin line when he was confronted with something he disliked - until it all became too much for me. I would begin to talk myself out of what I had seen, then. And all the while going down the route of madness, and wishing my nightmares would cease.