Another bit

Caspar found it easier to draw without planning or thinking… it just naturally came. Everything he drew was in perfect proportion, his tone precise, making his drawings life-like and 3D.
At that moment Caspar was drawing his foster carer’s son, Donny. He was a complete nutter. When he came back from “work” he was either drugged or drunk, sometimes both. He would make you clean his room or his on-suite, (Which usually had sick and piss all over the floor,) or else he would make up some terrible crime Caspar had done and tell the big cheese: Margret. Donny also got on very well with Fred, all too well for Caspar’s liking.
He drew Donny with a syringe in one hand and a half empty bottle of vodka in the other, crossed eyes and a blank expression.
He had just finished when his door flung open and Donny stood in the doorway. He looked a state (as usual.) He had lost a shoe, stripped to his underpants and had the smell of booze wafting from his pores.

Caspar panicked; he didn’t want Donny to see his drawing. He only had a split second to think, before he crumpled up the drawing and shoved it in his pocket.
Donny dropped to the floor. In that short space of time before falling, Donny had managed to break all the bones in his body. His arms and legs were tangled tightly together. His back bent in several different places. His neck was squashed in the space between his arm and his bum with his head poking out, crooked to one side. His face was the worst. His jaw had dislocated and had twisted up and round, causing him to bite his own nose of. One eye had turned inside out, the other hanging on by a thin nerve to where his cheek should be.

Caspar stood in shock as he watched the blood run down Donny’s face. He had to stifle a scream. With shaking hands he took out the drawing. He tried to straiten it out but he had little control over his hands and he knew it would be no use so he let it fall to the floor.
What he had done started sinking in. These things that had started happening only tonight were somehow linked to his drawing. But most importantly he had to get out before someone saw the corpse.
He had just murdered someone in his own room.
He pushed his light brown, scraggily hair of his forehead and legged it out of the house.