Off the Page

The villa faced the still waters—the waves painted like acrylic on canvas. The saturated blue colour glistened against the warm sun. The air around the villa smelled of anchovies and the salty beach. The scent brought out my hunger while sending a wave of nausea. I turned to Selynne, who was meandering through the expansive house. The windows were open, yet the summer breeze remained trapped outside. 

“Did you know Walt Disney used to come here often?” I said as Selynne peeked out the window on her tiptoes; the sun fell on her glossy, dark skin. There was always a natural spotlight on her. 

“To France?” She turned to look at me, smiling, a model for the cover of Teen Vogue in the early 2000s. Bile rose in my throat. 

“Yeah, exactly where we are now.”

“Wow.”

I might have imagined it, but she twirled as the sun transformed from yellow to gold. So dramatic. She took the bedroom to the right—the room facing the bright blue ocean. My room faced a brick wall. I drew the texture of the wall and the small green plant crawling through one of the cracks. 

***

 When Selynne walked through the streets of the village, it was like she wore a diaphanous gown billowing behind her. But she was just wearing a flimsy bathing suit for the beach. 

I lathered sunscreen over my pale skin, over the tattoos of a dog, SpongeBob, musical notes, and the word cheeky. The shore was narrow, but families and tourists like us speckled the sand. Instinctively, my sketchbook and pen were in my hands, tracing the profile of a man with a rugged nose. 

“Whatcha drawing?” Selynne asked in her lyrical voice. She was basking under the sun with black shades over her eyes. I could still see through the lens at her thick, fake lashes. Her eyes were closed, in a place between dream and sleep. 

“Just whoever is in front of me.”

“You’re always drawing…it’s really nice,” she said. Her neck tilted further back; I could imagine it snapping off like the stem of a cherry. I drew her decapitated head next. 

***

The black sketchbook was no longer on the dining table. I remember leaving it by the half-eaten apple, which had turned brown like bark along the bite marks.

“Selynne, where is my sketchbook?” I turned to her. She was scrolling through her phone, existing in the world online while her body lay slack on the sofa. 

“It’s in your hand,” she said, looking at the pocket red sketchbook I held. Silly, little Jade, she must have been thinking. 

“I meant my black one.” 

“I don’t know, I don’t remember seeing it.” Selynne rolled her eyes. 

“Fine.” I scanned the tables and opened the drawers (closing them with a clatter), but the withered sketchbook was lost…or taken. 

“Are you sure you didn’t move my sketchbook? I promise I won’t be mad if you did.” 

Reluctant and muttering under her breath, Selynne scanned the room, crawling on the floor like a cheetah ready to pounce. 

“Oh, here it is.” She pulled it from underneath the sofa as if it were a natural place to keep a sketchbook.

“Why was it hidden under the sofa?” I asked, snatching the sketchbook from her hand. A few bits of leather from the cover floated to the floor. It was crumbling to pieces. 

“How am I supposed to know?” Without another word, Selynne returned to her room on the right. 

Underneath the sketch of the brick wall, I drew a fanged monster. Saliva dripped down its chin, and gritty nails grew from claw-like hands. 

I woke up on the floor with the faint memory of drawing all night. Vampire bats to bleeding hands to knives. While the black pen and cap lay at the tip of my stained fingers, the sketchbook was missing once more. I stood up, hot rage flushing into my cheeks. 

“Selynne!” I hollered, running out to find her sitting by the window, basking in the sun with a bowl of blood-red cherries. 

“What!” She shuddered. “What is it?”

“WHERE IS MY SKETCHBOOK!”

“CALM DOWN.” She stood up from the chair, fury burning in her hazel eyes. “Where was the last time you saw your sketchbook?”

“In my room. In MY HANDS before I fell asleep. Did you come into my room last night and take it?” I probed, taking a few steps forward. But my small, plump body was no match for her tall, lean frame. 

 “Oh, come on,” she scoffed. “Why do you think I would want to steal your sketchbook?” 

“I…” I wasn’t sure, but Selynne had her ways of stealing things from me. Objects, people, ideas, moments of life…joy. 

“Just tell me if you took it.”

“You sound insane,” Selynne said. 

“Insane. I think you’re the one who is insane. Did you even think once before what happened with Charlie? Did you think once how it would make me feel?”

She jutted her hip to the side, arms crossed, and a wicked smile on her face. Silly, little Jade. 

“I just WANT MY SKETCHBOOK BACK. So can you—” A gust of wind filled the silent morning, and I watched the black, withered sketchbook slide across the room, faster than a plane during taxi, and hit Selynne in the toe. She folded into the chair, the breath struck out of her chest. 

I saw it before she did: her big toenail bent upwards. Bits of flesh torn at the edges and blood oozing into a puddle on the floor. The shrill scream came after. The sound must have travelled to the wide blue ocean.

“What the—” She couldn’t finish her sentence as the sketchbook flipped open; a sharp blade flew from the page and passed by me, slicing my cheek on its path. My hand rose to my face, to find a wide gash and blood spilling into the cup of my palm. The next knife, flying from the black, gaping hole on the page, pierced through Selynne’s palm. It slid through flesh and bone and peeked out the back. Her scream vibrated like a swarm of a thousand bees. With all the energy she could muster, she turned towards the door, but the sketchbook flew in the way, and the pages began to curdle. Thick, leathery flesh began to bubble. Fangs. Blood. Claws. The creature of my imagination. 

“What is that?” She huffed, full of fear and rage. “Did you do this? You’re a monster.” She looked into my eyes with loathing. 

She was the real monster, I wanted to say, but the creature was in full form by then, dragging its left claw along the wooden floorboards. I hurtled towards my room while Selynne limped towards hers, but stubbed her wounded toe on the dining table and toppled over. 

“Help!” She screamed in agony, but I was in my room, the door sealed behind me. 

I heard the sinister click-clack of the monster that lived in my imagination. The creature was clawing against her flesh; I heard the sound of skin being ripped apart, and her shrieks filled the room like the music of the night. Outside, the sun was warm and bright. I peered outside the window to find a couple holding hands down a cobblestone path. I had the urge to jump out of the window, to test the fall, but I couldn’t let my imagination run wild. When quiet seeped back into the villa, I returned to the living room—caution with every step. The floors were scratched, the dining table was turned, and Selynne was limp on the floor. Her dark, glossy skin now shining with blood—red spilling from deep scratch marks. 

“Jade,” she moaned, because I was the only one there. I came closer to find her eye pierced by a nail; the hazel lost in the pool of blood. “Jade,” she cried, the sound of a baby in the dark. 

“Where did it go?” I whispered, averting my gaze as her pain filled my veins. 

“I…don’t…k…” Her voice turned raspy, and I wondered if her last breath was moments away. I wondered how it would feel if she died in front of me with the one hazel eye staring into space. 

The fanged creature had left a trail, leading towards the door left ajar. And by the door was the sketchbook. Lying there, sly and discreet. The black book turned towards me, glaring as if it had eyes. And then it slid across the hallway with that familiar gust of wind. The sound was haunting. I fell backwards, crawling on my palms. The sketchbook stopped a few inches away, by Selynne’s feet—curled in a fetal position, she could see the monster. Her breathing became shallow; sickly, sweet moans filled the high ceiling. 

“Jade,” she mumbled. “Jade!” A bony finger jutted from the white sheet, tearing the page in half. While a rush of adrenaline kicked in, I remained frozen—eyes wide and palms slick with sweat on the floor. A hand burst from the book. Yellow and rotten bones, not the pristine alabaster skeleton in most cartoon films. The entire arm came through the book and gripped Selynne’s foot, the one with the bleeding toenail that had dried into a red globule. 

“Jade!” She clawed at the floor as the skeleton pulled and pulled her into the book. 

I watched her leg crawl into the page and disappear. I could have tried to help, to reach out a hand or a stick to pull Selynne from the drawings that came from the dark crevices of my mind. I could have saved Selynne and gifted the world with her charming smile and glowing skin and long, lean limbs for many more decades. Instead, I ran away like a scared child. Or worse: a selfish beast.