Teaser Tuesday
This is Dalet, the angel story again. :) A little bit of backstory - Camden just found out that his ex-girlfriend is in a coma from a drug overdose.
*
His eyes stung. He dropped his books in the middle of the hall and leaned his forehead against the wall. There were no tears. The world was way too screwed up for tears. So he just let his body ache and groan and burn like fire.
A door opened, and the smell of paint and chalk and paper slammed against his senses. His head jerked up automatically, and he stared into the art room.
He was going crazy. He had to be. Because for a second he thought he saw...
“Kaycee?”
Her face was white, ghostly white, with dark shadows bagging under her eyes. She was lying on the floor of the art room, her spine arching like some sick puppet master was pulling strings.
Camden dove for the door, his shoulder slamming against the wood frame as he skidded across the linoleum. “Kaycee!”
But the art room was empty except for a dreadlocked kid bent over a drawing and a hazy sheen of gold soaking the air. Camden blinked, shook his head. “Kay?”
He took a step forward, his hand weaving through the gold fog. “Kaycee…”
He stopped where he had seen her body, curled at the base of an easel. He reached out, ran his fingers along the painting propped against the stand. It was a landscape - a silver slice of river running through a valley surrounded by mountains. The paint splattered on the canvas was chaotic, smearing the grass with turquoise, the hills with purple, the sky with bright gold. And for an instant he saw the world through her eyes. Vibrant. Beautiful.
He laughed, then choked, then sobbed.
Camden…
His head snapped up as the whisper slithered up the back of his neck and bubbled in his skull.
And then he saw it, blazing in the right hand corner of the painting: a slightly distorted seven, outlined in gold against the paper.
Cam frowned, taking another step toward the picture. Without thinking he reached up and touched the birthmark on his neck - and jerked his hand back. “What the -”
His skin was on fire.
Heart throbbing in his chest, he brushed his fingers across the patch of skin. His neck didn’t hurt, but the birthmark scorched his hand with electricity, like he just grabbed a live wire. Camden stared at his shaking fingers. No burns. No cuts. No bruises.
“It’s a dalet.”
Camden’s eyes jerked toward the dreadlocked guy in the corner, chin propped on his fist.
“What?” Camden croaked out.
Dreadlocks nodded to the symbol sketched onto the painting. “A dalet. The fourth letter of the Hebrew alphabet.” The guy eyed his charcoal drawing again, his head tilted to one side. “It means ‘door.’”
“How do you know that?”
Dreadlocks looked up, his lips slowly pulling back from his teeth in a blindingly bright grin - so bright that Camden suddenly felt the need to grab a pair of sunglasses, duck into some shade, slather himself with tanning lotion. For a millisecond he thought he saw a flash of light behind the boy’s back …
“I’ve got connections, kid,” he said.
*
His eyes stung. He dropped his books in the middle of the hall and leaned his forehead against the wall. There were no tears. The world was way too screwed up for tears. So he just let his body ache and groan and burn like fire.
A door opened, and the smell of paint and chalk and paper slammed against his senses. His head jerked up automatically, and he stared into the art room.
He was going crazy. He had to be. Because for a second he thought he saw...
“Kaycee?”
Her face was white, ghostly white, with dark shadows bagging under her eyes. She was lying on the floor of the art room, her spine arching like some sick puppet master was pulling strings.
Camden dove for the door, his shoulder slamming against the wood frame as he skidded across the linoleum. “Kaycee!”
But the art room was empty except for a dreadlocked kid bent over a drawing and a hazy sheen of gold soaking the air. Camden blinked, shook his head. “Kay?”
He took a step forward, his hand weaving through the gold fog. “Kaycee…”
He stopped where he had seen her body, curled at the base of an easel. He reached out, ran his fingers along the painting propped against the stand. It was a landscape - a silver slice of river running through a valley surrounded by mountains. The paint splattered on the canvas was chaotic, smearing the grass with turquoise, the hills with purple, the sky with bright gold. And for an instant he saw the world through her eyes. Vibrant. Beautiful.
He laughed, then choked, then sobbed.
Camden…
His head snapped up as the whisper slithered up the back of his neck and bubbled in his skull.
And then he saw it, blazing in the right hand corner of the painting: a slightly distorted seven, outlined in gold against the paper.
Cam frowned, taking another step toward the picture. Without thinking he reached up and touched the birthmark on his neck - and jerked his hand back. “What the -”
His skin was on fire.
Heart throbbing in his chest, he brushed his fingers across the patch of skin. His neck didn’t hurt, but the birthmark scorched his hand with electricity, like he just grabbed a live wire. Camden stared at his shaking fingers. No burns. No cuts. No bruises.
“It’s a dalet.”
Camden’s eyes jerked toward the dreadlocked guy in the corner, chin propped on his fist.
“What?” Camden croaked out.
Dreadlocks nodded to the symbol sketched onto the painting. “A dalet. The fourth letter of the Hebrew alphabet.” The guy eyed his charcoal drawing again, his head tilted to one side. “It means ‘door.’”
“How do you know that?”
Dreadlocks looked up, his lips slowly pulling back from his teeth in a blindingly bright grin - so bright that Camden suddenly felt the need to grab a pair of sunglasses, duck into some shade, slather himself with tanning lotion. For a millisecond he thought he saw a flash of light behind the boy’s back …
“I’ve got connections, kid,” he said.