Blood on the Sketchbook

I flip the page.

The paper’s cold—too cold. My fingers stick.

I press the pencil down. The lead snaps.

Ms. Delaney doesn’t move. Her shadow stretches over my desk, long and wrong.

I start again. The figure’s outline bleeds through the paper—like it’s already there.

The eyes. I know those eyes.

A voice whispers—not hers—you drew me last week.

I jerk back. The sketchbook slams shut. The bell rings.

Ms. Delaney’s still watching. Alex, she says. We need to talk.