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“Let me ask you a question,” I say once my laughter subsides.
“On one condition.” She holds up a finger, her brows furrowing in apparent concentration. “I get to ask you a question too, and,” she points at me, “you will answer. You don’t get to manipulate your way out of it.”
Huh. Look who got better at bargaining.
I nod, and she waves her hand like a judge in court. “Ask away.”
“You clearly have a bright entourage, and your personality is... well, cheerful to say the least.” I keep my voice monotone. “So why do your paintings have dark themes?”
Mae releases her fork and wipes the cor
ner of her mouth. She fixes her glass of wine, her voice calm, almost reminiscent. “When I was seven, I got lost and was trapped in a dark cave for several hours. Despite the therapy, I couldn’t go to sleep without the lights on. I was progressively getting better until high school.
“On a cold dark night, Nathan was dropping me home after we finished with our study group. A few men appeared out of nowhere and started beating Nate. Their sole purpose seemed to use Nate as a punching bag. Although they didn’t hurt me, my trauma was triggered and I had a panic attack, unable to help Nate. Even if they had different shapes, the men were too similar to the monsters I saw in the cave as a little girl. Nate survived with a few cuts and bruises, the men were enemies with his father and wanted to teach him a lesson. He went along with life fine after that. I was the scarred one.”
She pauses, a smile crossing her lips as she releases a deep sigh. “But it was after that incident that I became serious about my art, so I guess it was an inspiring trauma.” She bites her lip, peeking at me through her lashes. “Then you came along. My dark inspiration spiralled out of control ever since I met you in that alley. It was like all the dark traumas I witnessed built to the moment of meeting you.”
“Does that imply I am the climax?” I smile, keeping my tone light.
She smiles back but her scolds, “Why do you sound proud? It wasn’t a compliment.”
I sip my wine, barely tasting anything memorable. “Who’s Nathan?”
“My high school boyfriend.” She chews on her steak and swallows but doesn’t continue. Out of all the times she could’ve stopped being talkative, it had to be this. I should’ve read that file about her.
“He wasn’t in your circle of friends.” Why am I so fixed on knowing the bastard? So I can rip his heart out?
Mae focuses on her soup. “Nate chose to study abroad, I didn’t. So it ended there. He was everything to me for years. I had a broken heart for a long time after he left, so I decided to shield it from any possible relationships. I was insecure and afraid of being hurt again, thus I refused all men’s advances. I lied to myself that I was doing it to focus on art until I believed my own big fat lie.” She goes silent, her gaze lost in the redness of the wine.
Did the bastard mean that much to her? The mere thought sends a stab of uneasiness through my chest. Even more uncomfortable than the constant pain of the bullet.
Mae shakes her head, a dismissive chuckle forces its way out of her lips. “But let’s not talk about me. I get to ask my questions now.”
“It’s only one question. Why are you pluralising them?”
She grins, playfulness shining her eyes. “Since you asked me two. The first about my art and the second about Nathan.”
The little mouse. She actually tricked me. I nod her away. She claps, triumph fills her expression. But not for long. Her brows knit together seeming in deep concentration. I can almost see her mind working around the hundreds of questions she probably wants to ask me. I’m in fact eager to know what will come out of her kitten’s mouth.
“Why did you study medicine when you’re into business?”
“I’m not into business. If it wasn’t the family’s conglomerate and therefore, image, I wouldn’t go near it. Medicine, however, is a field of interest to my bloodlust.” I put my glass of wine on the tray and make a few circles with the base. “The human anatomy, symptoms, medication, and trauma courses of action are helpful tools.”
“For killing.” Her voice is in its calmest tone. Not judging, mostly curious.
“Yes, for killing.” I take another sip of wine.
She pouts, but doesn’t seem the least bit shocked about what I admitted to. “But you don’t really want to kill, do you? It’s all because of the voices.”
The glass of wine remains on the side, or else I would’ve broken it to pieces. “Looks like Tristan has been telling you things that are none of your concern. How much did he tell you?”
She swallows and bites her lip. “Everything.”
My left eye twitches.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she whispers.
“Don’t you ever repeat that again, do you hear me? Forget whatever Tristan told you, I’m not broken for you to fix me.”
