Burying the Hatchet

II

Ethan sat on the bed and quietly stared at the window. Occasionally, he would talk about art, or share his thoughts, but the most that came from his mouth were prayers. He'd thank God for his existence, for the meals we'd catch from the lake or around the forest, and just about everything.

He never complained once.

I focused on his fixed stare. "What are you thinking about?"

"Who we're going to meet next." He met my gaze.

I nodded, understanding his need for entertainment. "Who would you like to meet?"

He shrugged. "Don't know."

"Bram Stoker's Dracula?" I lifted an eyebrow and grinned. "Dorothy from Oz? Or how about good old Abraham Lincoln?" I could see it now. The top hat and everything.

He shook his head and continued to fixate on the window. His slumped posture emphasized his gloomy stare that paralyzed his face, and after a few moments his spine stiffened. "I feel like drawing."

I approached the bookcase and retrieved his notebook from the center shelf, one he'd found in the shack that had had a few scribbles in it and a pencil secured inside the coil spine. He took the notebook and flipped over in bed to rest on his stomach. I'm sure if the shack had another room he would've disappeared into it to be alone. Too bad the cramped space didn't allow for much privacy.

Besides, I loved to watch him draw. He's always been amazingly talented and artistic. The one picture he enjoyed drawing the most was a portrait of me with long eyelashes, full lips, and my thick, dark kinky hair. He made the drawing more attractive than I could ever be, although he always insisted otherwise when I would point it out. He drew me in a dancer's stance, wearing beautiful dresses that I'll never own, and with the most handsome man as my partner.

However, when he'd draw himself he never included facial features. There was no mistaking his self-portraits were anything other, judging by the resemblance of the tall figure with broad shoulders and long, shoulder-length, dark hair. The face was usually left blank and without detail or scribbled over with pencil. I never understood why he scribbled over the figure's expressions, but sometimes when I looked in the mirror I felt the urge to do the same to my reflection. I hated being me, I'd rather be the girl in Ethan's portraits.

Although the girl in his drawings took on my physical characteristics; long, thick hair; full, pouted lips; almond shaped brown eyes, and a thin figure, it was apparent she was much more attractive, happy and lucky than I could ever be.

I always thought Ethan had nice-looking features, mostly because of his long, straight hair any girl would envy. Although he never drew his face, I appreciated that he at least drew his hair.

His strands hung just below his shoulders and surrounded his face better than a hand carved picture frame. I would wake in the mornings to find my hand tangled in it like a silken web and was content that he was by my side.

Besides his hair, he possessed dark Asian eyes that stood out. It angered me that he didn't forever preserve them in his drawings. If I had the talent, I'd sketch them myself.

As Ethan's pencil danced across the paper, I scrummaged through the clothes we kept stored in a box. Whoever the stuff belonged to had a lot of nice things that just suffered from the hands of time. And although the clothes were male clothes, I didn't have a hard time putting them to use.

I rummaged in the box until I came upon a dirty old handkerchief I had always ignored. I tied it around my neck like the cowboys in old westerns movies, and I made my way to the bathroom where a large shard of broken mirror remained on the wall.

The deep blue handkerchief immediately stirred some ideas.

I strutted into the room with my hands in my pant pockets. "Who am I?"

Ethan's hand moved over the page swiftly and elegantly at the same time, but he didn't look up from his drawing.

"Now, don't make me shoot," I drawled. "You're a great kid, but I wouldn't hesitate." I moved closer to the bed, hoping to get Ethan's attention but he wouldn't look up from the notebook. Feeling defeated and giving up on the charade, I threw my hands in the air. "I'm a cowboy."

Ethan hadn't even given a sign that he'd heard or seen anything. He just continued to draw, absorbed in his art.

My neck stretched as I peeked at his work, which was nothing more than various lines and circles so far. "What are you even drawing?"

When I neared him he quickly placed his hands over the paper. "It's a surprise." His face lit up with his smile. "And ... you like surprises, don't you?"

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously as his attention went back to the notebook. Suddenly, the unsatiated urge for company called me to the window.

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