Altered Read Online Free PDF Page A

confusion on my face, because he added, “Start with your frustrations. How about that? It’s easier to tap into anger or annoyance.”
    When I returned to my room that night, I’d opened my sketchbook and stared at the blank page. What frustrated me? My mother being dead, yes, but I needed something fresh.
    And then it came to me: Nick. Nick frustrated me.
    Soon, my pencil began to slide across the paper at an alarming pace. As I sketched, I felt it: a fire in my arm, a tingling sensation in my fingertips, like I was bleeding that passion onto the page.
    When I was finished, I had one of the best drawings I’d ever done. In it, Nick stood in the middle of a deserted street, bottles broken around him, liquid spilling everywhere while he peered out from the page, a prickly expression on his face. I was so proud of the sketch that I almost considered showing him, but then I realized that he’d probably take offense, or automatically hate it.
    I did show Trev, though, the next night. He looked from the sketch to me and nodded his approval. “There you go,” he said in a hushed tone so the others wouldn’t hear, so we could keep the sketch between us. “Continue to draw like that and you’ll turn into the next Vanessa Bell.”
    I scoffed, but inside I was beaming. Vanessa Bell was a brilliant painter, one of my favorite artists. She was also the older sister of Virginia Woolf, Trev’s favorite writer. That was the best compliment he could give me.
    My sketches changed after that. For the better.
    Now I turned to a fresh page and stared and stared and stared. Sometimes it was easy to begin drawing; other times I needed a jump start. I couldn’t always count on Trev to spur me. I grabbed an issue of Traveler magazine from my dresser and flipped through the glossy pages. I stopped on a spread of a quiet Italian village.
    I started sketching the buildings, the blush of light from the old street lamps. I added a traditional Italian café with tiny two-seater tables, window boxes dripping with flowers, bikes with baskets, and scalloped awnings.
    Before I knew it, I’d sketched myself walking the cobblestone street, Sam next to me. I ran my finger over the lines and the graphite smeared.
    I often found myself sketching fantasies like this one, where Sam was no longer locked in the lab and I was no longer tethered to it because of him. With my pencil, I could set us both free.
    But I couldn’t help wondering what Sam would want if he could choose his own life. Had he chosen this? Had he wanted to be some kind of perfect soldier, to serve his country?
    What did he want now that he couldn’t remember his reasons for being here?
    I grabbed the magazine and went downstairs. I tiptoed through the living room and down to the basement so I wouldn’t wake Dad. The lab door slid open when I punched in the code.
    It was nearly ten, and the lights in the boys’ rooms were off. I hesitated just past the opening of the hallway. The magazine suddenly felt cumbersome in my hand. I started to turn away.
    A light flicked on behind me. I stopped, turned back.
    Sam stood at the glass wall, barefoot, shirtless, in his usual loose gray pants. “Hey, Anna,” he said, but the words came out unsure, heavy. His shoulders hung crooked. When I took a step closer, he scratched his jaw, and looked down.
    Was Sam… uneasy?
    “Hi.”
    “Listen. I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
    I folded my arms and the magazine crinkled. “It’s no big deal.”
    He nodded, then gestured at the magazine. “What is that?”
    I held it out, suddenly unsure of my reasons for coming down here. “It’s just… You don’t have any pictures on your wall.”
    A frown pulled at the center of his brow. “You came down here to ask about my bare walls?”
    “Yes.” I ran my teeth over my bottom lip, glancing at the other rooms, waiting for the boys to stir, at the same time hoping they wouldn’t. “Why haven’t you hung