Law America, the Devil's Agent

Chapter 67 He's pleading for help! (Second update, 2k views, please subscribe)

Martha was silent for a while before finally managing to speak: "Alex wasn't like this before."

She finally spoke, her voice deliberately lowered compared to when they were talking about work, as if afraid of disturbing the silent boy in the corner: "You've met him."

In the gym lobby, he dared to talk to strangers and dared to turn his paintings over to show others.

He was out of breath even when walking, but he still loved to laugh.

He was so cheerful and lively.

She paused, her fingers tracing the rim of the teacup back and forth, as if she had reached the dividing line of memories.

"After my channel took off, I finally became financially secure."

I arranged better treatment for him, changed to a more authoritative cardiologist, and adjusted his medication regimen.

His health has stabilized considerably; the doctor said he can move around normally within a certain range and may even be able to attend school.

Her lips curved slightly, but the curve was very shallow, as if it hadn't even had a chance to fully open before being pressed back down by something: "Going to school is something he's always wanted."

He used to see kids his age walking by with their backpacks at the gym, and his eyes would follow them.

He asked me, "Mom, when can I go to school?" many times.

When can I be like a normal person?

So when his physical condition allowed, the first thing I thought of was finding him a good school.

She then gave a name.

Sacred Heart Elementary School.

One of Philadelphia’s oldest private Catholic elementary schools, it shares a campus with the local Sacred Heart Catholic Church, and its school crest features a Sacred Heart surrounded by thorns.

Those who come here are all from wealthy and influential families. The tuition is high and the admission requirements are stringent, but the reputation has always been excellent.

Martha said she went to great lengths to get a place in school and paid a hefty tuition fee.

Her thoughts at the time were very simple:

Alex had spent too long in the lower class, and she wanted him to go to a better place, a more decent, safer place, a place closer to a normal childhood.

"The first month was okay."

Every day after school, he would tell me about what happened at school, what the teacher taught, how many boys were in his class, and that his deskmate was a girl with a ponytail.

Although he doesn't talk much, at least he can talk to me.

She gently placed the teacup on the table: "Things started to go wrong in the second month. He began to become silent."

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I initially thought he was just adjusting poorly, because I had work and projects to complete, so I didn't communicate with him frequently.

Martha's voice remained restrained up to this point, as if she were presenting an objective observation report.

But in the following part, her speech slowed down noticeably, and her voice trembled in a way that she herself was unaware of.

"Later, the situation worsened, and he began to refuse to go to school."

Every morning I make up all sorts of excuses—stomach ache, headache, nausea.

Once, he hid his schoolbag behind the washing machine, and it took me half an hour to find it.

I thought he was just not used to the new environment.

He grew up in poverty and didn't interact with many children his age who were well-off, which may have led to feelings of inferiority and resentment.

What I was thinking at the time was—

This is an obstacle he must overcome.

Because there will come a day when I won't be by his side, he needs to learn to be mature and independent.

He will eventually have to learn how to get along with different people, and I can't let him back down just because he's afraid.

So I still took him to school every day, but I encouraged and comforted him every day, but—”

She looked up at Link, her eyes already brimming with tears, and something deeper:

I feel guilty.

"At that time, I didn't know why he didn't speak up."

I thought he was just unwilling to talk about it. Now I realize he was afraid to talk about it.

Her voice finally started to become unstable.

"One night I was giving him a bath, and he absolutely refused to take off his shirt."

I talked for a long time before he finally let me help him take off his clothes. Then I saw several bruises on his arms and back.

Some have turned yellow, they are old; others are still bluish-purple, they are new.

I asked him how he got hurt, and he said he fell on the playground.

But those bruises were all located below the ribs, on the shoulder blades, and on the inside of the elbows.

None of these things seem like they could have been caused by a fall.

She placed her hand on the inside of her arm to indicate the location: "These bruises are from being grabbed."

In the hearts of everyone present, the answer was already vaguely clear:

School violence!

Link didn't interrupt her, but listened quietly, because he believed that this was definitely not as simple as school bullying.

"What disturbs me even more is the content of his paintings."

He used to draw his deceased father—

This is what I taught him. Although Josh is no longer here, I still hope that Alex will continue to draw him.

He also paints churches because Josh said that churches are places that bring peace of mind.

He paints the sun, trees, and the passersby he observes in the gym.

But now—”

She turned her head and took out a few sheets of drawing paper from her handbag, pushing them in front of Link: "He's drawing these now."

Link looked down at the paintings.

The background of the first painting is a gray building without windows, in front of which stands a row of thin, black figures.

They had no facial features, no hair, only outlines:

With a slender body, excessively long limbs, and a head tilted forward, it seemed to be looking down at the person outside the picture frame.

At the very front of the image is a small blue figure, very small and thin, half the height of the black figures.

After drawing the blue figure's mouth, I repeatedly erased it with an eraser and then recolored it with a black pencil.

He had no eyes—the eye sockets were empty, with only two blurry gray shadows.

The second painting is almost identical to the first, but the black figures are closer to the blue figures.

In the third painting, the disproportionately elongated fingers of the black figure are placed on the shoulders of the blue figure.

It was so twisted and bizarre.

Celine had somehow walked up behind Link and was looking down at the paintings.

Her silence was broken, and she opened her mouth, her voice low: "These paintings—don't seem like the work of a seven-year-old child."

Link did not respond.

He was still looking at the paintings.

He saw sadness, he saw anger, and he saw—fear.

The meeting room remained quiet for a long time.

Then Kona's voice came from the corner.

Come and take a look!

She had been leaning against the doorframe since she entered, quietly observing Alex.

She stood to his side and slightly behind, silently watching the new painting in his hand that was taking shape. Then she reached out and gently picked up another painting that he had just finished and placed aside.

She held up the painting, which was even more chaotic than the previous ones:

The entire image is filled with intricate lines, with overlapping blocks of deep red and black, and twisted vortexes converging from the four corners to the center, where there is a shapeless mass, resembling a person curled up in a ball, or a dissolving shadow.

There are no words, no normal composition, only an overwhelming sense of oppression that can be felt directly without any interpretation.

"He wasn't painting."

Kona withdrew her finger, looked at Link, and said with suppressed anger in her voice, "He's calling for help!"