Read Online The Awakening of Ren Crown by Anne Zoelle - Free Book Online
Authors: Anne Zoelle
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staircase toward my bedroom.
“Sweetie.” Mom appeared in my peripheral view and her hand went to my forehead. “You look feverish. Are you well? Should I call the doctor?”
Or the therapist.
Dad appeared next to her, dark circles deepening. “I thought you were just in your zone thinking about your artwork.”
Hoping. He had been hoping I was just in my zone. And not dwelling on our missing fourth.
“Are you unwell? What is wrong, Ren?”
I loved my parents. Our family had been an awesome foursome. But now we were a very awkward threesome. They vacillated between holding on to me too tightly and trying to give me space. Holding on too tightly and pushing me away. Holding on too tightly and looking at me with ill-concealed censure.
“Nothing.” I had to clear my throat to get the whole word out. “I'm fine. Just tired. Everything will be fine.”
Will had confirmed that there was a way to bring someone back from the dead. Hope swelled painfully in my chest that my words were true. I repeated them as a promise.
“Everything will be fine.”
Chapter Three: Finding the Rabbit Hole
I stepped into my room and closed the door, stomach grumbling over the abusive way in which I had just shoved my dinner into it. I stood in the darkness for a moment, before flicking on the lights. My carefully wrought walls greeted me, overwhelming and crowding me, instead of providing the haven I desperately needed. I concentrated on the section directly across from the door and took a deep breath. The figures, creatures, and odd shapes remained stationary.
Half of the north wall had been completed during my Picasso cubist period, the other half during my obsession with pointillism and Signac. The transition between those two was...interesting. Demanding that the eye blend color versus elements. Christian had deemed me mad.
I wondered if his statement hadn't been a little true.
The other three walls and portions of the ceiling were a testament to other periods, some short, some longer. Impressionism, Renaissance, Baroque, Surrealism, Art Deco, Pop, Minimalism, Modernism. I looked to my latest period which covered the door to my closet. It was different from the others. It looked more like the designs on the draperies in the sketch. Black-and-white patterned circle portals and paths, shaded to create a three dimensional edge. As if I could enter to find Christian down one of those tunnels. The entrances to Heaven and Hell inside of my room and life.
I looked toward my nightstand and the photo of the two of us that rested on top. I curled my fingers into a fist, then loosened them one digit at a time. I could feel the energy in my skin hum.
I took another deep breath, sat, and unrolled the sketch—clipping the paper to my tabletop easel. Will was crouched defensively in the corner furthest from the slivered opening between the drapes. As soon as he saw me, he jumped up and made large motions with his limbs. The beret was off and stuffed in a back pocket, his dark hair was disheveled, and there was a large tear in the right pinstriped sleeve of his jacket. That hadn't been there earlier. He had been immaculate.
“Are you real?” I couldn't help but whisper.
He replied—a long string of words that were completely silent, but I got the gist of his motions.
“Ok, ok, you are real. And, er, I'm thinking you want out of there?”
Will started pantomiming and doing charades, motioning to me to draw something on the paper.
I looked at the painted walls around my room. Nothing moved there. Ok. I could do this.
He pointed to the tear in his sleeve, then gave me the sign to hurry up. I picked up a pencil, reached forward, and sketched a needle and some thread.
Will looked at me with an expression I could only catalog as contempt bordering on hysteria. He then reached forward, and with his shirtsleeve, wiped clear the lines I had drawn. Unnerved, I set my pencil down.
He motioned to my bag. I glanced down to see the charcoal
“Sweetie.” Mom appeared in my peripheral view and her hand went to my forehead. “You look feverish. Are you well? Should I call the doctor?”
Or the therapist.
Dad appeared next to her, dark circles deepening. “I thought you were just in your zone thinking about your artwork.”
Hoping. He had been hoping I was just in my zone. And not dwelling on our missing fourth.
“Are you unwell? What is wrong, Ren?”
I loved my parents. Our family had been an awesome foursome. But now we were a very awkward threesome. They vacillated between holding on to me too tightly and trying to give me space. Holding on too tightly and pushing me away. Holding on too tightly and looking at me with ill-concealed censure.
“Nothing.” I had to clear my throat to get the whole word out. “I'm fine. Just tired. Everything will be fine.”
Will had confirmed that there was a way to bring someone back from the dead. Hope swelled painfully in my chest that my words were true. I repeated them as a promise.
“Everything will be fine.”
Chapter Three: Finding the Rabbit Hole
I stepped into my room and closed the door, stomach grumbling over the abusive way in which I had just shoved my dinner into it. I stood in the darkness for a moment, before flicking on the lights. My carefully wrought walls greeted me, overwhelming and crowding me, instead of providing the haven I desperately needed. I concentrated on the section directly across from the door and took a deep breath. The figures, creatures, and odd shapes remained stationary.
Half of the north wall had been completed during my Picasso cubist period, the other half during my obsession with pointillism and Signac. The transition between those two was...interesting. Demanding that the eye blend color versus elements. Christian had deemed me mad.
I wondered if his statement hadn't been a little true.
The other three walls and portions of the ceiling were a testament to other periods, some short, some longer. Impressionism, Renaissance, Baroque, Surrealism, Art Deco, Pop, Minimalism, Modernism. I looked to my latest period which covered the door to my closet. It was different from the others. It looked more like the designs on the draperies in the sketch. Black-and-white patterned circle portals and paths, shaded to create a three dimensional edge. As if I could enter to find Christian down one of those tunnels. The entrances to Heaven and Hell inside of my room and life.
I looked toward my nightstand and the photo of the two of us that rested on top. I curled my fingers into a fist, then loosened them one digit at a time. I could feel the energy in my skin hum.
I took another deep breath, sat, and unrolled the sketch—clipping the paper to my tabletop easel. Will was crouched defensively in the corner furthest from the slivered opening between the drapes. As soon as he saw me, he jumped up and made large motions with his limbs. The beret was off and stuffed in a back pocket, his dark hair was disheveled, and there was a large tear in the right pinstriped sleeve of his jacket. That hadn't been there earlier. He had been immaculate.
“Are you real?” I couldn't help but whisper.
He replied—a long string of words that were completely silent, but I got the gist of his motions.
“Ok, ok, you are real. And, er, I'm thinking you want out of there?”
Will started pantomiming and doing charades, motioning to me to draw something on the paper.
I looked at the painted walls around my room. Nothing moved there. Ok. I could do this.
He pointed to the tear in his sleeve, then gave me the sign to hurry up. I picked up a pencil, reached forward, and sketched a needle and some thread.
Will looked at me with an expression I could only catalog as contempt bordering on hysteria. He then reached forward, and with his shirtsleeve, wiped clear the lines I had drawn. Unnerved, I set my pencil down.
He motioned to my bag. I glanced down to see the charcoal
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