One of Those Faces (10)
Chills rose all along my arms, and I felt a sharp pang in my palm. I looked down at the two broken halves of red pencil embedded in a jagged cut in my clenched hand. I opened my palm, and one of the broken halves fell to the table. The other, smaller half was splintered into the cut, dried blood trailing down my palm and wrist.
I took a shaky breath and pulled the pencil out. I gasped as the sharp pain intensified, and a new, fresh stream of blood poured out over the two girls on the paper.
I ran to the sink and washed the splinters out. The dripping continued, so I wrapped two paper towels around my hand and stumbled back to the table. I tapped my phone.
5:02 a.m. There was a message from Erin hours ago.
Erin (2:06 a.m.): I’m home! Lots to tell!
Without looking over my destroyed illustrations again, I swept them into my open bag along with my colored pencils.
I stared down at the primitive drawing of the two girls holding hands. I realized they were standing in water. The blood was seeping through the paper and onto the table. I recognized the dresses the girls wore. Of all the sudden realizations upon waking up, that was the most troubling.
They were the green dresses with blue flowers that Mom had made us wear that last day we all went to the beach as a family. Issi had liked the dress, but I had hated the flowers. I’d hated the way it flared up when I ran.
Clutching the paper towel closer to my palm until the wound stung, I took the new drawing and ripped it up and tossed it into the trash can by the door.
I swung my messenger bag over one shoulder and unlocked the dead bolt on the back door. It was still dark out, but the sky was the faint blue color that accompanied dawn. I let the door slam closed behind me and grabbed the studio keys from my bag. As I locked the door, with the morning chill rustling through my thin jacket, I still thought about that drawing. Not that my illustrations were destroyed. Not that I had impaled myself with a pencil. But those two girls.
My body was heavy as I dragged my feet along the pavement, determined to get home. The throbbing in my palm gave way to the numbness overtaking my entire hand. I wondered how long it had bled while I continued to sleep.
It was early Friday morning, so the street was quiet, still hours before the city would roar to life.
A couple of shadowy figures exited the apartment buildings ahead. I passed the alley across from my window, shuddering at the memory of the grating sound that rattled through my mind, my search for my keys becoming more frantic. A rush of relief flowed through me as my fingers closed around them. I jammed them into the lock and swung the door open.
Woodstock was exiting his litter box in the corner at the exact moment I entered.
He surveyed me and gave a disapproving meow. If I had been home, he would have been well into his second hour of yowling for breakfast while I slept.
I walked past him to the kitchen and unwrapped the paper towel around my hand. The blood had dried, but I could still see some splinters from the pencil in the cut.
As I poured some food into Woodstock’s bowl, I started to consider my damaged illustrations. I had one more week until the deadline for the author. I could probably get an extension, but that cheapskate would try to negotiate down the other half he owed me. I was already close to not making rent for the month.
Woodstock buried his head into his food, and I collapsed onto my unmade bed, stomach down. I fished for the TV remote in the covers, then flipped through a couple of channels of static before landing on the local news. I couldn’t close my eyes. Instead, I rolled over on my back and fixated on a space on my empty white ceiling, that haunting picture of the girls projected before me.
“The young victim of a suspected homicide has been identified by law enforcement.” The voice of the news anchor snapped me out of my reverie. My heart pounded as I sat up, watching the replay of footage of the crime scene. “The body of a young woman was found in Wicker Park on August seventh and has recently been publicly identified as twenty-seven-year-old Holly Elizabeth Bascom, an Iowa native. Holly was a junior associate at Blue Rivers Investment Firm and a recent MBA graduate from DePaul University. Police have yet to release any details about the condition her body was found in, but they have stated they’re investigating her death as a possible homicide.”
The screen switched to a photo, and I was suddenly looking into a mirror. Her eyes were bluer than mine, which verged on gray. Her nose was slightly longer, her hair smooth and straight, but otherwise the same shade of dark auburn as mine. It was a graduation portrait, and she was wearing bold, dark-framed glasses.
The anchor’s voice broke through my daze, and I took a breath for the first time in almost a minute. “At this time, the police have not named any suspects or persons of interest. If you have any information about this case, please contact the Chicago Police Department at the number on the screen.”
As she moved on to the next story, I let my shaking hand lean against my forehead. I was dizzy. Was I really that tired? Had I imagined that the victim was the adult Issi from my nightmares?
I reached over Woodstock’s curled-up body and grabbed my phone. On Google, the same images of Holly popped up. She was my double. No, she was better than my double. She was what Issi would’ve grown into. She looked gorgeous. Intelligent. Ambitious. If it was possible for a person to convey all that with their appearance, that certainly wasn’t what I looked like. I was the Mr. Hyde version of her. A little rougher and scarier than the hero of the story.