The Faulted

chapter seven

"love me when i least deserve it, that's when i most need it"

All of Tuesday, I paid attention to Harold more than I did before. He looked fine, hyperactive as usual.

When I excused myself to go to the bathroom, his eyes flicked over to mine. I could tell just by his piercing green eyes what he was thinking.

"Just to wash my hands," I said immediately after.

In Astrophysics, Mr. Owen called him out.

"Are you paying attention, Mr.Styles?" The teacher asked him with a very annoyed tone.

"Absolutely," Harold closed his eyes and nodded ardently at Mr. Owen.

"Then come up and write the Kepler equation on the board," Mr. Owen challenged.

Harold said he didn't know it. I volunteered in his place, Mr. Owen handing me the chalk and spitting a "pay close attention" to him.

When class was over, Harold walked alongside me and whispered, "Mind if borrow those textbooks?"

"I would, but it's too advanced for an amateur like you," I wistfully replied.

Now I'm sitting behind a canvas in camp three days later on a Thursday afternoon, where we were instructed by Counselor May to paint the first thing that came to mind with the word 'tranquility'. And I still haven't told Harold about the calls I kept getting about him. I had to tell him now.

"Gail," Counselor May says, placing her hand gently on my shoulder. Her eyes look from my empty canvas to me. "Not feeling it?"

I want to say that I feel as empty as the bereft canvas. I want to say that I have yet to reach any form of tranquility with a head such as mine so nothing comes to mind except the contrary.

Instead I say, "Just about to get started."

She smiles at me, then moves to Amy who is humming as she flicks her wrist and paints quickly.

"A bowl of fruit?" Counselor May asks. "That brings tranquility to you?"

"That, and it's the only thing I know how to draw," Amy drawls as she finishes painting her grapes. I laugh quietly at her, sliding the paint bucket from in front of her to me.

My eyes slowly travel to across the room where Harold is sitting, or rather standing. He apparently never sits down. Quite frankly, with the way he's so.. jittery, I don't think he sits down if he doesn't have to, The back of his canvas faces me, so I can't see what he painted. If he painted at all. He's talking to Miles, adding to the low chatter coming from everyone in the room.

He must have sensed that I was staring, because he looks up at me. I smile at him, his smile is barely there as he gives me a three fingered wave.

I sigh, trying to figure out how to approach him about it. What if it was urgent? I'm doing no good by prolonging it. The guy called me six more times after the first, but I panicked and forwarded them all to voicemail.

I feel something spill on my jeans. I look down and frown. It's blue paint. I don't remember even dipping the brush into paint.

My canvas is covered with blue paint. I narrow my eyes, looking from the paintbrush in my hand to the canvas. I must be hallucinating because there was no way I painted that.

But I wasn't hallucinating. Images of the nightmare reiterated in front of my eyes on the canvas, the eerie voice reverberating in the back of my mind.

"Give up, Gail."

I freeze.

"Gail, honey, are you okay?" Counselor May asks, a little too loudly. The whole room falls silent, the feeling of everyone's eyes boring into me making me incredibly uncomfortable, but I can't speak.