Volume IV: What Kept You From Greatness

The Artist

I walked into the sanctum after school, smiling as I greeted my father. "Hey dad."

"Hey," he replied, engulfed in a book, as always. I walked past him, up the grand staircase and towards my room. First, however, I stopped in the library to grab a book to study for the week.

The Astral Chronicles

I laughed a bit at the title, but shrugged. I was finally advancing with my studies on astral projection. Putting the book beneath my arm, I moved to my room nearby and laid my backpack on the ground beside my desk. I sighed and sat at my desk, opening the book and flipping through. I took in the information, then tried to practice. Although I didn't succeed, I also didn't fail. I knew I was born for the mystic arts, so things came naturally to me. Although it often took me a lot of practice, I usually got the concept of things quickly.

I was just about to try again when my father knocked on my door. "Hey, Kate?"

"Yeah," I responded, letting him know it was okay to come in.

He opened the door and handed an envelope to me, and it was quite a thick one. I glanced between him and the envelope in confusion. He shrugged. "It doesn't have a return address, but it's make out to you."

I took the envelope from his hands, seeing that it was indeed addressed to me. The handwriting looked somewhat familiar, though I couldn't place it. "Should I open it?"

"I don't see why not," my father replied, leaning against my doorway.

I nodded, looking over the envelope for a moment more before carefully opening it. I pulled out several folded pieces of sketch paper and one page of notebook paper. I set the envelope aside and unfolded the notebook paper, finding a letter written out to me.

Dearest Katelyn,

I'm writing to you to let you know what's happened to me, seeing as you and Peter were the only ones who seemed to care. I was processed through social services and went through the court system. My dad was charged with abuse and murder, seeing as they couldn't save mom. Then, they put me in the foster system. My foster parents are so nice and loving and caring and kind and I can't say enough. They actually love me. Kate, you're the first one who's shown me true kindness and Peter the second. Now I have two parents and three siblings that show me that same kindness (most of the time, because siblings are siblings).

Nevertheless, I've kept up my art. I know you loved it, so here's some things I drew in your honor. Don't worry, though, your secrets are safe with me.

Thank you for helping me in my time of need. I can't say enough words or draw enough drawings to give my love and respect and tribute to you.

Thank you,
Jackson

As I finished the letter, I handed it to my father absentmindedly. I grabbed the other papers and unfolded them gently, seeing the pencil sketches in full detail. I slowly examined every single one, one at a time.

The first was me with my cloak, standing firm and tall, my sorcery surrounding my hands. I had a determined look and stance and I seemed to be getting ready to fight or defend someone.

The second picture was me standing over Jackson with the garbage can lid, but a side view. My sorcery was hidden behind the lid and his father was screaming at me and pointing a finger at me. Jackson's expression was fearful but amazed.

The third picture was me and Peter sitting together, laughing and hugging. I could almost see the picture moving as I relived the memory.

The fourth picture was of my father, in a defensive stance with his shields up. He had an angry demeanor, something I rarely saw in him. This confused me, but I continued on.

The last picture was me in a battle stance, my sorcery surrounding me in something of a bubble, as I remember doing during the lockdown. I wasn't sure how he remembered it, seeing as my father replaced his memories, but there were several bodies in the shadows. I could make out shocked expressions on the unidentifiable faces. Near my legs was Peter with a sad but ready look on his face, as if he was going to help defend me at any second. The only other face I could distinctly see was Jackson's, in which I could see his eyes sparkling with amazement.

I blushed a bit at all the pictures, turning to my father and handing them to him. "How does he remember the school one? And what's the one of you being angry?"

My father glanced up at me. "This is from Jackson, yeah?" I nodded slowly, not sure where he was going with it.

"Well, when I went to his house, I snuck in through his window. I could hear shouting and things breaking, seemingly in the next room over. That's when the kid crawled out from beneath his bed and looked up at me. He was terrified. I asked him what was happening, but he shushed me and pulled me to kneel on the floor. He whispered to me that his father would be coming at any minute and that I should leave. I told him that I needed to wipe his memory and that I was sorry, but then his father came into the room. He retreated back under the bed like a scared puppy, almost.

"I was angry that he felt the need to act that way around his own father. I stood and challenged his father, and when he tried to attack me, I knocked him out and wiped his memory of me. Jackson came out and hugged me, then begged me not to wipe his memory. He wanted to remember you and me and what we had done for him. I made him swear to secrecy and then left him. I hadn't seen him since, but seeing as he never revealed us, I didn't feel the need to."

I sat back and took it in, realizing that Jackson had seemed to act a bit different around me after the lockdown. I looked over all the pictures again, then read the letter once more with a small smile. My father kissed the top of my head, then left to finish dinner. As he did, I got some thumbtacks and pinned the pictures to my cork board, proudly displaying them. I wished I could write a letter back, but instead I laid on my bed and thought about Jackson. I was glad he was doing better. It made me happy to know I made his life a little bit nicer.