Josie Guerrero is focused on one thing: getting accepted into the prestigious art studies program within the Art School at the University of Southern Washington. With thirteen weeks to create her sophomore portfolio, she knows she can't afford any d...
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Delicate silence — her entire apartment is blanketed in it.
Colder than the icy currents rolling through Pullman, it sends a rush of unease down my back as I step through the front door. It's a silence that settles on my skin like the sleet pouring from the dense cloud cover shrouding the moon. It's a silence that shatters beneath my boot as I take my next step into the dark.
The snap echoes like a gunshot.
The wind picks up, slinging sleet against the windows and glass door in the living room, pulling at the clouds just enough to release a sliver of pale moonlight. It's enough for my eyes to adjust to the shadows, enough for me to recognize what I've stepped on.
I stumble back a step, watching the snapped drawing pencil roll from beneath my boot and into the shadows. Another gust of wind whips past, illuminating the hardwood for a heartbeat. Long enough to spot Josie's school bag lying at my feet, its contents spilled across the floor.
Her green sketchbook — the one she handles with a damn near reverent gentleness — is splayed open, broken on the floor from the fall. Its pages are bent, creased, and drowning beneath a pool of midnight blue seeping from a cracked paint bottle still hemorrhaging on top of it.
"Fuck." I drop to a knee, careful not to crease the pages any more than they already are while the icy paint coats my fingers.
The fall cracked the book's spine, loosening the pages that fall to my feet like autumn leaves.
"Fuck, fuck —" It's a harsh exhale through gritted teeth as I collect the pages, trying to slip them back into the broken shell of the book, but they're soaked in paint, clumping together and refusing to slide back into place. It hits me then, as I stare down at a veritable piece of Josie's heart, this — this isn't something I can fix.
This isn't something I can save.
This sketchbook, once gilded in vibrant color, is now lost to the deepest shade of midnight, the pigment seeping through the pages like blood. Blood that's now coating my hands, sliding down my palms and soaking the sleeves of my hoodie.
"Jos?" I call out, eyes fixed on the destroyed sketchbook in my hands.
Silence.
Silence so loud it grates.
"Josie!" I call again, glancing around the unlit apartment. There's a stack of Biology textbooks on the bartop counter, one open with an uncapped highlighter sitting atop it while a massive stack of multicolored flashcards towers beside it. A glass with what looks like iced coffee has melted, the condensation pooling around the base of the cup.
A quick succession of squeaks breaks the silence. Followed by the sound of paws hitting the floor and the soft click of a door opening.
And then the softest intake of breath echoes from the hallway — a gasp that catches in her throat.
