The Boy Who Drew the Future by Rhian Ivory

Author:Rhian Ivory
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781910080276
Publisher: Firefly Press Limited
Published: 2015-10-15T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 21

NOAH

I wake up under my bed; my legs backed up against the wall, toes cramped and cold as if I’ve been out of bed for hours. Maybe I have. My arms and head are sticking out into the room; the rest of me is buried underneath paper.

I’ve been doing it again, drawing in my sleep instead of dreaming. I try to adjust to the early morning light to see what I’ve drawn. Faces are scattered across my floor. Cold, blue eyes look up at me. It’s the same face again and again, as my vision blurs and then focuses. Each picture is from a different angle, a different time of day. In some I’ve zoomed in close on her pale face and her long yellow hair. In others I’ve caught her from a distance in the frame of her bedroom window, taking her tie off with a soft smile on her face. They are each like a film stuck on pause: one character, one scene jumping and flickering.

She is smiling in all of them, the smile she throws over her shoulder as she walks away. It isn’t a nice smile. There is no fear, no guilt. She’s enjoying it. She is pushing a small boy, her brother, out over the window ledge, her hands on his shoulders as she tilts his body back. I can’t see his face, I haven’t drawn it, but I know it’s him. She has her school tie round his throat. I can imagine his terror as he looks down at the ground way below him. But I don’t know when this is going to happen or how to stop it, and that panics me. The familiar fear rises like heat up my body reminding me of how useless I am, how slow to act, to think. I screw the picture of her face up in my hand, blocking it out. I’ve seen faces like this before, images that don’t make sense, don’t tell me enough about who and what and where and when. And when the picture finally starts to make sense, of course it’s too late.

I gather up the papers. They crackle and crunch in the early morning quiet. I freeze, waiting for Mum or Dad to come barging in. I sit there with the evidence in my hands. But my door stays shut. I look at my clock – it is only 4am. They must be still asleep. I can take the drawings and shove them in the recycling bin outside the back door. I can cover her face with soggy cereal boxes and useless junk mail, bury her underneath egg cartons and free newspapers, getting rid of her and her stupid smile.

I scrunch the pictures up, folding, bending her eyes, false smiles and sharp fingernails. I creep downstairs, taking care not to let the kitchen door slam shut behind me. The back door is locked. It makes a clicking sound as I turn the key. The patio is cold and damp. If only I’d put on some socks.

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