At twenty-two-years-old, a journalist named Charles Munakata got a chance to improve his career by contributing to a project involving Soma, a tropical island occupied by scientists. While he was there, he learned some upsetting truths about the isl...
I opened the top drawer and noticed a generic sketchbook sitting in the back. I picked it up and examined it. There was a very short word written on the top left corner of the inner cover, but it was censored with smudged permanent marker. I slowly turned the pages, intrigued by the anonymous artist's impeccable drawing skill. The first notable drawing I found was of a vast garden. I admired the detail, although I secretly wished it had been colored.
Three pages later I found a grayscale drawing of a handsome young man. His expression was calm and blissful; he had kind eyes. The man's short, layered hair was somewhat dark in color, and those kind eyes of his were likely a light blue or green. Despite the innocence his eyes conveyed, I could still tell that there was likely another side of him underneath it all. I somehow recognized him, but I also knew that I had never met him specifically. I think I've met someone who resembles this guy, I thought.
The next page was half-torn. It seemed to be a drawing of a sunflower field, though. I flipped through drawings of gloomy grayscale mountains, ornate mansion rooms, and modern cityscapes—all of which had unbelievably smooth lines and shading. After admiring those pieces, I stumbled across another achromatic drawing of that same man. This time he was cradling a baby. The picture seemed sort of unfinished. The infant's chubby face and thin hair weren't shaded much at all. The man's fair-skinned face was more serene than in the previous drawing. Something about his perfect face gave me a glimmer of hope for a brief second. I felt compelled to take the book with me, so I placed it on top of the dresser. I planned to take it back to my room along with the newly acquired journal that I had left sitting on a Library table.
The second drawer contained another sketchbook. The second sketchbook looked like it had been through a lot. The outside was covered with scratches and sloppy pen marks. The first page had been soaked at one point, destroying the inked drawing and covering the other pages beneath it in diluted blue ink. After trying and failing to look through the badly water damaged pages, I found a wrinkled drawing of two small hands being held by a pair of larger ones. That was the only drawing that had been saved. Everything after that had been carelessly torn out.
The drawing of the hands reminded me of Joseph. It made me think about how much he missed his dad. When that thought crossed my mind, I examined both sketchbooks again, looking for Joseph's name. I didn't find anyone's name, however, and I didn't recognize the person's art style either.
Next was the third drawer. When I opened it I saw some small canvas paintings. Some were flipped over, some were not. I pulled one out of the drawer and observed it. Unfortunately, I nearly had a heart attack when I saw who was on the canvas.
"Holy fucking shit!" I exclaimed as I shuddered. I jumped back, but I made sure not to take my eyes off the painting I held, which was of my younger self.
In the picture I was wearing my high school uniform and standing with a school bag over my shoulder. My face was calm and content. The artist made me look remarkably beautiful, and that reminded me of Grandpa's portrait. As I stared at the artist's depiction of my face, I realized that I actually resembled Grandpa more than I thought. We basically had the same face.
This time I recognized the elegant, crisp art style. To confirm my suspicion, I read the signature on the bottom right corner over and over. The signature read "Aloysius Valentine", and the year on the top right corner said "February 1996".
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My old high school friend, Aloysius, referred to as Alois by most, was both telepathic and telekinetic. When we were in school, he was known as "The kid who could do anything" by the whole city, which really got on my nerves. He really was a local celebrity. Not to mention he aced all his classes with little effort and could probably fuck anyone he wanted to.
I thought about my high school experience a little more and I realized that maybe his clairvoyance wasn't the only thing that made me envy him...
"I hate this so much," I mumbled as I ran a finger over the signature. "The boss and Narrator just had to go one step further with the creepiness, didn't they? Ugh. I don't even talk to this guy anymore."
I stuck my hand in the drawer again and picked up a note with Alois' handwriting on it.
The note read:
"Mr. Peterson,
Sorry I couldn't give this to you in person. One of my relatives is very sick. When I'm not doing commissions, I'm helping them out.
Anyway, I remember you told me to surprise you, so here it is! This one is a bit personal. I hope you don't mind.This guy was my best friend back in high school. His name is Charles Munakata. I met him in our freshman year of high school, and we became friends pretty quickly. At first, he was that one friend everyone dreams of having. He was loyal and trustworthy. My family even considered him one of our own. That all changed in senior year when he began to show his true colors. He admitted that he envied my clairvoyance, and things just went downhill after that. Long story short, he really envied me and stopped talking to me. I actually really miss him, though. I knew him like the back of my hand."
"Oh, wow... I'm a dick," I confessed. I stared into space in absolute disbelief, wondering how Alois would feel if he knew I murdered one of his own kind.
The whole time I felt like I was the victim. Toward the end of our friendship, everything Alois said would piss me off, and I would get offended by him constantly. I was so angry at this popular rich kid because he was attractive, psychic, and multi-talented.
"You're probably one of the luckiest people to ever exist," I would often tell him. I hated him. Yet, after all these years, he still cared about me and my family, as shown by the fantastic artwork he made of me and my grandpa.
I never intended for my hatred toward clairvoyants to reach such a level. I never expected Alois to still give a shit about my stupid mediocre self. After giving it some more thought, I actually kind of wanted to speak with him again and make things right. I had gone too far that day, and Alois' note to Mr. Peterson only made me feel more guilty. I needed to apologize to Alois, and I planned to do it once I got back to the mainland. Right then I also decided to actually try and control my angry jealousy so I wouldn't commit murder again. Sure, that was common sense, but the whole Alois thing really solidified it for me.
"He painted this last year, huh? Why, Alois?" I felt myself getting a little choked up. I decided to take the small portrait with me, along with the first sketchbook. When I got back to the Library, I studied the painting of my grandpa closely. It really was Alois's work all along. I grabbed the third journal and headed back to my room to hopefully distract myself with Joseph's entries. I also planned to give the boss a piece of my mind, since he did basically betray me.
