Wildflowers and Tattoos (The Crow: Bill Skarsgard)

Chapter 4

❀Lillie❀

They let me have crayons.

Maybe years ago when the voices were friends and not dictators of my every breath I would have complained about receiving crayons instead of a pencil or a pen. But, years ago I wouldn't have had restrictions on what objects could be in my presence. Years ago I thought I had an overactive and not self-deteriorating mental illnesses. Years ago I had someone worried about me, now I have a group of guards, lawyers, psychologist, psychiatrists, and other doctors worried about when I'm going to try and kill myself again. Years ago I could forget to eat a meal without it being considered an attempt to starve myself. Years ago I could go outside whenever I wanted, without a time limit and curfew. Years ago I was free. Years ago I was alive.

For the first time in what feels like a lifetime I smile for something other than pain. It's small, barely there, and likely looks more like the snarl of a crazed animal than a smile, but it's real.

I tuck the right side of my hair behind my ear to keep it out of my face, and open the black sketch book I was given. Staring at the blank pages feels like staring at a world of possibilities. I can create whatever I want within the emptiness of these pages.

My fingers curl gently around the black crayon. Bringing the dull point to the page, I allow images to flood my mind, and inspire the lines and shapes that fill the page. Rather quickly, the jagged lines and smooth curves begin to resemble the face of the boy I saw all those weeks ago when I nearly succeeded in taking my life. Granted my view of him was fairly blurry, and I couldn't make out exactly what his tattoos were. Despite my lack of visual detail, my imagination was glad to take the reins and fill in the things I wasn't sure about.

When I feel the sketch represents a very close image to his likeness, I set down the crayon and pick up the sketchbook. Holding it in both hands, I raise it to block the glare from the fluorescent lights of my room. Gentle, lightly sketched eyes stare down at me, frozen in time as if pleading softly with me. Those eyes hold my attention as if the boy were still crouched in front of me, asking what I had done. My focus on the drawing is so intent I don't notice the body in my doorway until he speaks.

"Hi." The soft voice startles me. My grip on the book falters and it clatters to the floor with a fairly loud crash. The boy winces at the sound. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

Slowly my eyes move to the tall boy in my doorway. I think my mouth falls open the slightest bit upon seeing his light green eyes, and I think I can hear him inhale sharply when my eyes meet his. My gaze flickers down to my drawing, and then back up at the boy several times.

"My name's Erik." He introduces, leaning on my door frame but making no move to step into my space.

I stare at the drawing, my eyebrows pinching together as I silently form his name with my lips.

Erik

Squinting my eyes at the messily drawn crayon lines, I glance between the filled page and Erik standing in my doorway a few more times.

"Lillian." The word, my name, is spoken so quietly that I almost think he didn't hear me.

"Lillian." He tests my name out loud like I had done silently moments before. Finally his piercing attention moves from me, but it moves to the object in front of me.

Shit!

I scramble to close the sketchbook, and wedge it between my back and the wall.

"Is that me?" Erik asks, eyes alight with curiosity.

I shrug. I don't know if Erik is the same boy I saw when I nearly died, but he looks a hell of a lot like him. Same sharp caribbean green eyes. Same smudges of ink if I squint my eyes. Same tall stature, and lean body. Same sweetly alluring voice.