Unmatched Wife: Not His To Claim Anymore novel Chapter 241

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Chapter 27,1

Chapter 241

THEO

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The drawing happened by accident.

It was after school, in the hour before dinner when I usually did homework or read or sorted the dinosaur collection according to whichever system I was using that week. I had my pencil in any hand because I had been going to finish the ankylosaurus from two nights ago, the one I had been working on when the dream came.

I looked at the page.

The ankylosaurus was half-finished, the body roughly right, the tail club still needing work. had a reference picture propped against the lamp that I had been using to get the proportions correct.

I put my pencil to the page.

And then the room came out of it.

Not deliberately. I did not decide to draw the room. I was not thinking I will draw the room now, I will put down the ankylosaurus and draw the stone room instead. My hand moved and what came out was a line that was not the ankylosaurus, and then another line, and I watched what my hand was doing with the specific surprise of someone whose hand has decided something without them.

The walls.

Stone in the way I understood stone to look in the dream, the specific quality of it, and I didn’t know how to draw stone but my hand was trying to anyway, making the texture of it in the way a five-year-old made texture, repeated marks that meant something without being precise.

The ceiling.

I drew the crack.

I drew it starting thin at the left and widening toward the center and splitting into two before it reached the light, and I drew it this way without looking at anything because it was in me the same way the numbers were in me, specific and exact, the detail that my sleeping self had registered as important.

The light.

One bulb behind something. I drew the cage shape around it the best I could, which was not very accurate but which had the right sense of it, the contained quality of a light that was always on and went nowhere.

I stopped.

I looked at what I had drawn.

It was a room. It was not a good drawing, I was five and my hands were still learning to do what my head wanted, but it was the room from the dream, recognizable to me in the way that a place is recognizable even in a bad photograph, the essential shape of it present even where the details were wrong.

I looked at it for a long time.

Then I turned the page over so the drawing faced the desk and put my pencil down and went to wash my hands before dinner even though they weren’t dirty, because I needed to do something with the next few minutes and that was the thing I could think of.

The numbers were still in the careful part.

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The drawing was face down on the desk.

I was five years old and I was the only one who ad both of these things, and I was standing at the bathroom sink with the water running and I was thinking about what Dr. Fisher had said about feelings finding shapes that were easier to look at than the actual feeling

And I was thinking about the other thing she had said.

That surviving was allowed. That having dinners and Saturday mornings and real laughs was not dropping something important. That the grief changed shape because your life was growing around it.

My life was growing around it. But what if she was still in it.

What if she was in a stone room with a crack in the ceiling and a caged light and specific mumbers and sfie had said help, through water-sound, twice, and I was the only one who had heard it.

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