Chapter 167 Catherine

• Despite my exhaustion, I barely sleep that night. I know it’ll take some time for Al-Quadar to respond to my presence in town, but I’m still consumed by dread and nervous anticipation. Every time I drift off, I have nightmares, only in these dreams it’s not Beth who’s being cut into pieces—it’s Patrick. The bloody images are so vivid that I wake up nauseated and shaking, my bedsheets drenched with sweat. Finally, I give up on sleep altogether and pull out the art supplies I brought with me in my suitcase. I’m hoping that painting will prevent me from dwelling on the fact that my nightmares may be playing out at this very moment in some Al-Quadar hideout thousands of miles away.
• As the light of the rising sun filters into the room, I stop to examine what I painted. It looks abstract at first—just swirls of red, black, and brown—but a closer inspection reveals something different. All the swirls are faces and bodies, people tangled together in a paroxysm of violent ecstasy. The faces reveal both agony and pleasure, lust and torment.
• It’s probably my best work to date, and I hate it.