Read Online Stolen by Lucy Christopher - Free Book Online

onto the floor, hitting my knee hard against it. You grabbed my shoulder and pushed me down, using your strength to keep me there.
    “I said don’t move!”
    You were hysterical, your voice on the edge. I scratched at the floor, tried to grip on anything, tried to drag myself along.
    “Don’t hurt me!” I screamed.
    I lashed out. My fist connected with something. You made a gasping noise. And then, suddenly, you let go. I was up and stumbling and running to where I thought the door was.
    “Just stop … STOP!”
    I tripped and hit the floor again. There was a wetness and stickiness against my palms, right where I landed. I crawled through it. It didn’t end. The whole floor was wet. And then there were the other things … hard things, sharp things, things scratching at my legs. There were soft lumps of material. It felt like clothing, clothing from all the other girls you might have killed in there. The sticky stuff was stuck up to my elbows. It felt like blood. Had you hit me without me realizing? I touched my forehead.
    “STOP! Please, Gemma, just stay where you are!”
    I was crying and screaming, trying to get away. You were yelling, too. I could hear you thumping through the room, after me. At any moment I’d feel a knife in my shoulder, or an axe slicing my head. I kept bringing my hand up to check if I’d been hit already. I felt my throat. I didn’t know where the door was. I slid over the floor, feeling along it, desperately searching for something to protect myself with. My shoes slipped in the wetness.
    Then you pulled open the curtains. And I saw it all.

     
    There were no bodies. No dead people. It was just us inside the one-room shed. And the colors.
    I was sitting in the middle of it all. There was dirt and dust, plants and rocks … all of it scattered over the floor around me. My arms were covered in blood. At least that’s what I thought at first. Everything was red, all of my clothes stained with it. I touched my forearm. It didn’t hurt, nothing did. I lifted my arm to my nose. It smelled like dirt.
    “It’s paint,” you said. “Made from the rocks.”
    I spun around quickly, found you. You were between me and the door. Your face was wild, your mouth tight and angry as you looked me over. Your eyes were dark. I started shaking. I crawled backward, reaching behind for something solid to hold between us, but all I could grab were sprigs of flowers, needles of spinifex. I backed up until I reached the wall. Then I waited; every bit of me focused on you, on what you’d do next, on where you would move. My breath was coming in bursts. I wondered how hard I could kick you. Could I get past you to the door?
    You watched me. You were wilder than I’d ever seen you, but you were still as stone. Just the sound of my breaths, getting faster and faster, hung between us. Your hands were clenched in fists. I saw the veins sticking out on the back of them and the whiteness of your knuckles. I risked a look back at your face.
    Your eyes squinted tight, as if you were trying to fight something inside you, some deep emotion. You groaned. But the tears came anyway. They ran down your cheeks quietly, slipping over your jaw.
    I’d never seen a man cry before, only on TV. I’d never even seen Dad close to crying. Those tears looked so odd on you. It was like the strength of you just seemed to sap away. The surprise of it stopped me being so scared. I took a deep breath and looked away. The walls were painted in large streaks of color. There were bits of plants, leaves, and sand stuck to them.
    You took a step toward me, and instantly my eyes switched back to your face. You crouched down on the backs of your heels. You didn’t move into the area that I was in, the area filled with sand and stickiness. You stayed on the edge, just looking at it all … just looking at me.
    “You’re sitting in my painting,” you said at last. You leaned forward and touched a leaf. “I made all this.” You moved your