Chapter 5 5

Erich lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. His body was exhausted, but his brain was firing on all cylinders. Eventually, the exhaustion dragged him under.

The dream hit him instantly.

He was standing in the massive living room of the Malibu beach house. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the dark, churning ocean. The air conditioning was freezing, biting into his skin.

Erik Patton stood by the glass, his broad shoulders blocking out the moonlight. He was wearing a perfectly tailored suit. In his large hands, he casually twirled Erich's favorite sable-hair paintbrush.

"You think you're an artist?" Erik's voice was smooth, dripping with condescension. It echoed off the glass walls. "Your work is garbage, Erich. You're only here because you look pretty standing next to me."

Erich opened his mouth to scream at him, but his throat was paralyzed. No sound came out.

Erik turned around. His eyes were dead and cold. He gripped both ends of the paintbrush and snapped it in half.

The sharp crack of the wood breaking echoed like a gunshot.

Erik threw the broken pieces at Erich's feet. "Know your place."

Erich gasped and shot up in bed.

His eyes flew open. He was drenched in cold sweat. His hands were clawing at the fabric of his t-shirt, right over his violently racing heart. The phantom chill of the Malibu house still clung to his skin.

He threw his legs over the side of the bed. His bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor. He needed to physically ground himself.

He walked to the window and ripped the curtains open.

The bright, blinding morning sun flooded the room. He squinted against the glare, looking out at the cracked pavement and the neighbor's overgrown lawn.

There were no security cameras. No bodyguards parked at the end of the driveway. He was free.

Erich turned away from the window and marched over to the small wooden desk in the corner. He yanked the drawer open. Inside lay a chaotic mess of sketchpads and pencils.

He grabbed a standard graphite pencil.

The second the wood touched his fingers, his hand began to shake violently. The PTSD from Erik's constant criticism paralyzed his motor skills.

Erich gritted his teeth. His jaw locked so hard it ached. He forced his fingers to wrap around the pencil, squeezing until his knuckles turned white.

He slammed the graphite tip onto a blank piece of paper.

He dragged the pencil across the page. The line was jagged, ugly, and completely lacked the smooth, refined technique he was famous for.

It was perfect.

He began to draw frantically. He sketched the outline of Erik's arrogant face, and then he violently scribbled over it, pressing the pencil down with all his body weight. He slashed heavy, black lines across the paper, destroying the image.

Snap.

The pencil lead broke under the pressure. The sharp wooden edge tore a massive gash through the paper.

Erich stopped. He stared at the ruined drawing. His chest heaved as he sucked in oxygen.

A low, raspy chuckle vibrated in his throat. The chuckle grew louder, turning into a dark, manic laugh that filled the small bedroom. It was the sound of a man who had survived a firing squad.

A loud knock hit his bedroom door.

"Are you having a psychotic break in there?" Keyla yelled through the wood.

Erich stopped laughing. He picked up the torn paper, crushed it into a tight ball, and threw it perfectly into the trash can.

He walked to the door and yanked it open.

Keyla stumbled forward, almost losing her balance. She had been leaning against the door to listen. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with apprehension.

Erich stared down at her. His eyes were completely clear, sharp as broken glass.

"Tell Mom I'm going to New York," he said, his voice dead calm. "I'm entering the youth art competition."

Keyla's jaw dropped. She blinked rapidly, trying to process the information. "Are you out of your mind?"

Erich didn't answer. He stepped around her and walked straight down the hall to the bathroom.

He turned on the faucet, letting the freezing water run over his hands. He cupped the water and splashed it directly into his face.

The shock of the cold water washed away the last lingering traces of the nightmare. He grabbed a towel and scrubbed his face dry.

He looked at himself in the mirror. The heavy curtain of hair still hid his features, but the eyes staring back at him were different. They were predatory.

He mouthed the words to his reflection, making a vow to the stranger in the glass. Never again.

Down the hall, Keyla started screaming for Brenda. The sound of a plate shattering echoed from the kitchen. The gears of his new life were finally turning.