Charlotte usually found the act of drawing calming. There was something meditative in putting pen to paper, of fixing something in your mind's eye and conjuring it onto the page, filling in empty space and making something from nothing.
People said she was talented, too, that she had a gift for art, as if it was some innate knowledge of the shape of the body, or an inherent ability to understand the interplay between light and shade, and not, in fact, the pinnacle of thousands of hours of practice and dedication. Charlotte kept every drawing she had ever made, most were sorted away in folders, labelled and dated and stored out of sight. Some however, she put on display. Every couple of months she would sit down with her latest folder and flick through her collection and find the worst piece she had made in that time.
It was these works of art that she framed and hung around her bedroom. Most people didn't really understand when she introduced them to her gallery of mistakes, some asked why she didn't celebrate her achievements? Or what made these pieces worse than any of her others? They didn't understand that her best works of art, her greatest accomplishments, were when she solved a problem, when she taught herself something new and evolved as an artist. But the worst drawings? Those were the places she realised the problem existed, they were milestones not of skill, but of understanding.
Charlotte usually found drawing relaxing, she could put pen to paper and let her struggles disappear, at least for a little while. There was something so freeing about creating something, using the whole of your attention, focusing every part of yourself and being present in the moment.
Madison had once told her that she seemed to go somewhere else when she was drawing, and it was impossible to reach her. She said if you gave her a pen and paper, then you could steal everything in the room around her, the chair from out under her, even the shirt of her back, and she wouldn't notice. Charlotte disagreed of course, she wasn't oblivious to the world around when she drew, it's just that there was rarely anything more important or engaging going on. She tried not to draw around her friends anymore, as Madison had found that quite offensive.
Charlotte usually found drawing fun, she didn't do this for the satisfaction of seeing herself improve, there was something joyous in seeing the work unfold slowly before you. The challenge of pushing herself to create something new and different was a rush unlike any other.
Becky said… No, she wasn't thinking about Becky right now.
Her dad once said that he had never seen anyone take more pleasure in anything than she did when drawing. No marathon runner was as proud as when she showed off her latest work, no skydiver as giddy or excited as she was when starting a new project, and no musician got caught up in the moment like she did.
Charlotte tried to ignore the phantom sensations that crawled across her skin, as an invisible needle seemed to shift ever so subtly to point in a new direction and an intangible band seemed to stretch just that little bit further as it thrummed with tension.
Charlotte usually found drawing soothing, but not tonight. She stared down at the page clipped to the board on her lap, 3 brave pencils had given their nibs in vain to tonight's effort, but for once she could not lose herself in the act, there was no joy to be found, or satisfaction earned. This drawing was destined to join her gallery, as few among her collection so clearly represented her mistakes.
Charlotte pushed the board aside and clambered to her feet. Escaping the soft embrace of her large bean bag, she stretched and yawned, wiping tired eyes with the palms of her hands to avoid catching her eyelids with the sharp edges of her gnawed-on fingernails. There was a distant feeling of pins and needles in her legs as she stumbled over to her dresser to grab a glass of water. Taking long slow sips, she waited for the sensation to fade and for feeling to return.
But it didn't fade, the sensation grew stronger, spreading outwards like a candle burns down a wick. Coming to settle behind her eyes, like a dull throbbing headache. It was a strange feeling, like her head was wrapped in cotton wool, or like listening to two people argue whilst underwater. There was a separation, as if everything she was feeling wasn't actually happening to her.
Realisation struck as she felt a pain she hoped to never feel again. The phantom sensation of a blade both cutting and not cutting at her arms and legs, slicing faint burning lines down her limbs and leaving marks that were not there.
"No, no, no." She shook her head, trying to clear her mind, separate herself from her cousin, but the connection between them was too strong. She leant against the dresser, fingers clasped around the edges, arms locked straight as she held herself upright until the cuts stopped and the pain vanished.
Slowly she released her death grip on the furniture, and took a deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth, just like she'd been told in the videos she looked up after last time. The sensations were not real, they were not happening to her, it was just feedback from the ring. The thoughts were scant comfort to her though, as she knew precisely who they were actually happening to.
She had barely gotten her breath back, when something seemed to slam into her side with such force she wondered that she hadn't been thrown physically across the room. It was like getting hit by a car, pain radiated up her chest and spiralled into bruises that would never form. A hand closed around her throat, choking her, she both could and couldn't breathe as half a city a way, Becky struggled in this vice-like grip.
Charlotte tried to rip the ring from her hand, pulling and yanking with sweat slicked fingers in a blind panic, before suddenly the pressure disappeared. The band still in place, she rubbed at her neck, feeling gingerly at the place she remembered being held just seconds ago. Numbly, she walked back towards her bean bag. Kneeling down next to it, she pulled out her discarded pencil and went to grab the board again. She stopped herself, arm still outstretched to pick up her fallen art. She didn't have to continue to suffer through this, she warned Becky, last time it happened. She could just walk downstairs, find her mother and explain everything that was happening, she could let go of responsibility. It wouldn't be her secret to keep anymore.
She lost herself momentarily in that beautiful glimpse of freedom, before a gut-wrenching pain in her lower back burst through the link. The familiar throbbing sensation of a non-existent stab wound was swiftly drowned out by the dizziness, nausea and emptiness that followed.
The link fell silent, no new sensations followed that dreadful blackness that threatened to overwhelm her. Charlotte could still feel where her cousin was, she knew that she was alive, somewhere in the city. She had never been someone to believe in karma or divine irony, but despite herself she couldn't help but feel like this was somehow her fault. Whatever had happened to Rebecca, it had happened just as Charlotte contemplated betraying her trust.
She felt herself sway slightly, as her skin grew cold. She could almost feel her heart slow it's beat as blood rushed inward, heat blooming in her centre. The dizziness returned, her own this time as the room started spinning, and spinning. There was a stabbing pain in her thumb as she pressed the pencil into it, trying to stay lucid.
Her fault.
*** *** ***
Charlotte opened her eyes, the scratchy carpet itched against her cheek and she could feel the fibres tickling against her nose. She sneezed. Blinking away the gold spots across her vision, she looked up. She blinked again, the spots were still there. Floating flecks of golden light in a crudely drawn line stretched through the air, down to where her hand was resting. The light seemed to grow finer and thinner as it approached her body and stopped just next to her. It almost seemed to form an arrow leading directly to the pencil that had dropped from her grip when she fell unconscious.
She had fallen unconscious, sudden panic gripped her as she remembered what had caused her to fall unconscious. Charlotte leapt to her feet, all pain forgotten. The strange light seemed to stretch and fade, dissipating as she scrambled to find the clock on her bedside cabinet. Grabbing the silver metal ears of the mouse-protector alarm clock she spun it around and glanced at the face. Sighing in relief as she found she had only been out for a couple of minutes.
Throwing the clock back onto the bed, she turned and ran for the door, slamming it open so hard it left a small white mark on the painted wall behind it. Taking the stairs 2 at a time, she careened through the house, shouting "Mom, Mom!"
When she got to the living room she stopped in the doorway, sitting on the sofa was her mum and dad. Her dad was wearing a simple t-shirt and jeans, while her mum was dressed in her scrubs. She was due on shift soon and had probably been getting ready to leave for work. Sat opposite them, in the two rickety old armchairs, was Rabbi Joshua and a stranger. The Rabbi was wearing a conservative set of dark trousers and sensible walking shoes, with a black turtleneck sweater and a flat black hat pushed down over his curly hair.
The other man was wearing similar clothing. In fact, there were a lot of similarities between the two. Charlotte could see the two were related, not just in the colour of their eyes, or the shape of face, but in the way they held themselves. The slight curve of the neck and head as they turned to look at her in the doorway, unconsciously mirroring each other in a way only siblings did.
"Charlotte, are you ok?" Her dad spoke, as he stood up and walked over to her, pulling her into a hug and doing his best to ignore her sweat slicked skin as she limply returned the gesture.
"Charlotte love," her mum said, worry dancing in her eyes like firelight, "Do you know where your cousin is?"
She nodded, weakly pushing herself out of her father's grip. Tears formed in the pit of her eyes, so she scrunched them tight to avoid looking at the disappointment she would find in her parent's faces, "she's in trouble."
Short interlude chapter complete, I have a few of these planned to go between the end if this arc and the beginning of the next so I'd like to hear what you think of the shorter, more compact and introspective style.
(the other chapters I have planned are titled 'The pickpocket' and 'The Athlete' and I have tentative plans for a third, but that might need a longer chapter).
Story picks back with Becky next update.
