The Silence Beneath the Waves

Everyone’s hiding something. Myself included. They say artists are compelled by something unseen. But imagine if it worked the other way. I’ll try to explain.

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Think of it this way. Do you ever wake up to find your hands have been working without you? Like your body knows something your brain hasn’t had the guts to admit?

That’s how it started.

Not dreaming. Not sleeping. Just there—knees jammed under my chin, sketchpad open, pencil bleeding like it wanted out. Cold morning. Motel stinking of mildew, roach shit, and the sour breath of secrets too old to confess. Heater gasping like a dying lung.

And there she was.

The face. That fucking face!

Drawn in strokes that came too easy. Too familiar.

Pale eyes. Tight mouth. Smile like a blade.

Not seductive. Not human.

Just that quiet kind of knowing that crawls under your skin and whispers, I remember what you did.

I blinked.

I blinked again.

Fuck.

Miriam Cross.