Play Me | ✓

Chapter 38

"Hey," Kai takes a step back, and looks over me. His eyes full of worry. His hands land  on my shoulders as he gets me to take a seat on my bed. "I'll be right back with the first aid kit."

I watch him enter the bathroom end exit within seconds coming out with the first aid kit in his hands. Kneeling down on his knees, he sets the box down on the floor and reaches for my bloody hand.

I comply with his actions letting him take control. He pulls out a cotton ball and wets it with an antiseptic before starting to wipe off the blood. As he damps the fluffy ball, I try not to wince.

He gets most of it clean, but when he tries to clean the last blood clot, I jerk my hand back. I examine the area and find a shard of glass digging in between the knuckles of my pinky and ring finger.

"I'll take it out," Kai volunteers before I can even try. I nod and inch my hand closer to him. Using a pair of tweezers, he pulls the piece of glass out and immediately starts to wrap my hand with a bandage.

Once he's done, he stands up saying, "I think we need to talk."

"I-"

"Or, you can just listen," he doesn't let me talk. I bite down on my bottom lip and agree. He extends his hand out indicating me to take it. My eyes follow his arm up to his face. Reading the expression on my face, he continues, "I'm gonna show you something."

Without a question, I enclose my hand with his. His hands rough like mine, feel nothing out of the ordinary. Getting up from my bed, we walk into Kai's room.

This time though, his room is lit. Everything is clear, his king sized bed, maroon walls and the black accents give off a gloomy feeling, yet that is nothing compared to the stacks of canvases lying in the lobby of his room. Dozens of canvases fill the room. All various sizes, some still under process while others seem like they're the most expensive paintings at an auction.

As I roam around eyeing the different canvases in the room, Kai stays back just watching me from afar. I don't let that bother me and continue on searching for the one. All of them are magnificent, but don't speak to me like I want them to. They don't reflect me or him, but I know there's going to be one. One that will feel like a slap to the face. The truth of his sorrows.

"Why am I here?" I question when I can't find what I'm looking for.

"You see these paintings, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, look at something else."

Ignoring my first instinct to question what he means, I think.

Look at something else.

Rotating my head, I look around his room again. The bed, the wall, the bathroom, the main door, paintings, balcony door and his desk.

My eyes stop at the desk. Slowly, I make my way to the desk. My fingers glide across the dark wood and my eyes brush past the bookshelf hanging over top. Tilting my head, I read the spines of the books.

Every title seema to be of horror and thriller genre and none stand out. I read through them again and find nothing special.

It has to be here.

Instead of looking at the books themselves, this time, I decide to look at the shelf they're on. The shelves are covered in dust expect for one part. I swipe the tip of my finger on the surface, but no dust is picked up.

This is it.

I pull the book off the shelf and examine the cover. The book itself is rectangular with a hard cover supporting it. There's no exotic design to the cover just plain black with a bumpy texture.