literature

is there nothing you can fake

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Literature Text

The art building was the jewel of the campus, named after the city’s equivalent of the Rockefellers and designed to suggest opulence, creativity, and sophistication. It was also enormous, since it housed everything from all of the graphic design computer labs to five separate practice rooms for different sections of the orchestra. The layout was not a comfortable grid like the humanities center; it was more like the science building, with twists and turns and hallways that went nowhere.

Micah realized the map was freaking Remy out. He put a hand on their shoulder. “Let’s start in the basement.” He fished in his pocket for his keyring. “You said he started out as an art major, right? If he had any good memories of this place, it’d be in the basement. That’s where he’d do his work. I mean—all this stuff up here, this is just stress for me. Gallery showings and teacher evaluations. Downstairs is where I get to do what I love. Anyway…” He paused, trying to figure out how to phrase it sensitively.

Remy caught the drift. “No, you’re right. If he—if he hurt himself, or if he’s going to hurt himself, he’d go somewhere private, and you said there’s a ton of weird nooks and crannies in the basement. I bet Art knows them all. He’s—he’s that kind of guy.” Remy walked away from the map with quick, nervous energy that meant nothing good.

***

Downstairs, Micah divided his collection of keys in half. “We’ll cover more ground if we split up. The keys are all numbered with the door they go to.” Remy nodded. They turned, already moving away, but Micah caught their shoulder. He couldn’t quite meet their eyes, not when he couldn’t find a way to soothe their anxiety. “Just—text me, okay? I mean—”

Remy opened their mouth as though to snap at him, then let out their breath. “I’ve got myself under control. I’m not good by any stretch of the imagination, but I’ll be fine until we figure out what the hell is going on.”

Micah let go of them. “Okay.”

Remy closed their eyes for a moment. “No, really, Micah—” They pressed a hand to their forehead. “I’ll be fine. Thanks for… coming out here. It really means a lot to me.”

Micah bit his lip. “We should, um, we should start looking.”

***

Well, if you were going to do something… this would be the place to do it. No one would find you. It really was like the science building, only this place didn’t have the excuse of being cobbled together from several other buildings. Someone had designed the art building basement—almost as though for this purpose.

Goosebumps sprung up on Micah’s skin, and he rubbed them away.

He tried a door handle, already reaching for his key ring since it would be locked like all the others. But it wasn’t. It opened easily.

The walls were lined with shelving that Micah could just make out in the dim glow of the emergency lamp. Unclaimed sculpture projects lined one wall: model houses complete with tiny trees and people; gargoyles that sneered and laughed and scowled; anatomically precise renderings of the hand and foot. The rest of the room held abandoned or broken equipment.

On the far wall was a rack of equipment for working glass: broken blowhoses; long-stemmed, fat tweezers; a barrel of scrap glass with a single lit candle resting atop it. Art was sitting next to the candle. A cracked mold rested in his lap. He’d lost a lot of weight, and his skin was very pale in the candlelight. For a moment, Micah thought he might have—but then his fingers moved over the mold, like he was reading Braille.

What do I do what do I do what—

Art lifted his head and looked at the candle. He blinked, and then he found Micah’s eyes. “…Micah Makarios?” He squinted as though confused.

Micah took a step toward him, involuntarily. His foot touched something soft. Vomit. Oh. Shit. Micah slid his hand into his back pocket for his phone, careful not to move too quickly. “Um, yeah.” He hoped he looked like nothing, like he didn’t realize what was going on and what it meant. “It’s… it’s Art, right? You’re… Remy’s friend.”

Art closed his eyes at the name. Micah hoped he hadn’t stepped wrong by mentioning them. “Sort of. I’m really bad at it.”

Micah brought his hand around, glancing at his phone casually, as though checking the time. Really, he was making sure he’d found the “recent calls” screen. Remy’s number was on top. He pressed the green button and shoved his hands in his pockets, casually.

Please come, Remy. Please know what I mean. Just this once.
Sorry to leave this on another cliffhanger. I tried to resolve it, and there just wasn't enough space. God, this got depressing fast.
© 2013 - 2024 SkysongMA
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DarthVengeance0325's avatar
Yes, the lad may need a bit of help. _, Did he try with poison?