Page 22 of Atone

If he’s annoyed, he doesn’t show it.

The tension has yet to cool, but his hand is no longer clenched.

I usually try to avoid staring at Alex when I’m here because it feels disrespectful. Tonight, I can’t seem to stop myself. I watch his face, reading the tension in his clenched teeth. I trace the scars that peek out of the collar of his shirt and skitter up his neck, nearly reaching his jawline. They go all the way down his left arm, spreading like a spiderweb onto the back of his hand.

There are so many questions I’m not brave enough to ask. Like what happened at his trial. Or what happened after. How does he get through the day with that haunted look in his eyes? Is it worth it?

If Patience is right, he could leave Montgomery. Or, at the very least, he could try to get better.

Why doesn’t he?

Glancing down at Alex’s hand again, I notice a journal sitting beside him. His pencil is the bookmark about two-thirds of the way through.

“Do you spend a lot of your free time writing?” I ask, nodding to the book. “Patience said you used to write short stories and poetry back in high school and that you were pretty good at it. I’ve never been much of a writer myself, but I’ve always admired people who are naturally creative.”

Leaning forward, I dare to brush my fingers over the leather journal. It’s etched in a design I don’t recognize. There are two swirls that almost resemble mirroredS’swith a vine wrapping around them. It reminds me of the delicate designs painted on the merry-go-round horses at the carnival.

Whimsical. Secretive.

Alex pulls the book into his lap.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have touched that.”

I’m crossing lines by being here in his room. And with every sentence, every move, I probably make him regret leaving his door open.

Alex doesn’t meet my gaze as he flips his journal open to the page with the pencil. His eyes move back and forth as he reads what’s written there. After a long moment, he finally looks up at me, surprising me by handing me the journal.

“Are you sure?”

He nods, so I take it.

The leather binding is smooth in my hands, and the pages are thick and sturdy. The journal heavier than I expected. But it’s more than the quality of the leather, it’s the weight of what he’s given.

A peek inside the mind of Alex Lancaster.

What makes him think I can be trusted with this information?

Alex doesn’t take his eyes off me as I lean back against the windowsill with the journal in my hands. My fingers trace over his handwriting like it’s a piece of him. Alex’s letters are jagged. All hard edges. No softness.

The page is mostly empty, but there are a few sentences scrawled at the top, and something compels me to read them out loud.

“Stars die in eyes like yours.

Not even the night can survive that kind of darkness.

The teeth of the black hole open at your will, and we’re all too busy staring to feel the first pull of gravity as it reaps and claims.

They say take a breath.

Close your eyes.

But there’s no relief in the night.”

It’s heartbreaking, even if I don’t fully understand it.

Words that hint at a mind I can’t wrap mine around. But I try anyway. To cling to his words by reading them over and over. I imagine his voice saying them, even if I have no idea what he sounds like.

I’m tempted to turn the page. To go back. To keep reading. To learn everything there is to know about a man who wages wars within his own head. It must be exhausting. But I know better than to push, so I reluctantly close the journal on the page he offered me and hand it back to him.