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Mine least of all.
“I was beginning to worry you wouldn’t show.” The words were mocking. He knew I always came home from work at this time. My social life was nonexistent. At the age of eighteen, you think a girl like me would be going out all the time, living her life. But no, instead, I was on my way home. The highlight of my night most likely being the chicken noodle soup I was going to heat myself up for dinner.
He knew this. And as usual, he insisted on throwing my loneliness back in my face. Just another one of his verbal spears to stab through my empty heart.
The funny thing is, Uncle John wasn’t even my real uncle. Just one of my dad’s polished players in a business world of games, drugs, and booze. Uncle John outranked my dad, and he never seemed to let me forget that little fact.
Sneaking into my house had become a rather recent addition to our game. Another way for him to remind me that he was here to collect.
“Have you been getting into trouble lately?” For a second, I froze, thinking vividly back to the black journal I have hidden beneath the floorboards in my room. Kaleb’s’ smirking face, so different from the mocking face before me, flashing across my mind.
“You don’t seem to have a single piece completed,” he observed, turning towards my empty canvas. I ignored the wave of relief that flooded through me at his words as a different type of anxiety began to eat me up from the inside.
“You know the deal, Rosie. You paint and I come to collect said paintings. You know how much I don’t like to be disappointed little Rosie, don’t you?” He turned to me, his immaculate suit and polished shoes radiating the energy of a man who is not one to be toyed with,
“I know,” I said, looking down.
“And yet you have done nothing? Not a single piece completed. Have I taught you nothing?” His words were controlled. Patient. But I knew the very ice that lived underneath that calm composure. I knew the beast that came out when Uncle John got angry. He had no problem completely freezing you out of his life and taking everyone you care about down with you.
“I'm having a bit of artist block.” His eyes sharpened into razor blades, and I knew I needed to speak faster if I wanted to get out of this unscathed.
“But it's nothing. I’ll have my next piece out in no time, I promise.”
“No.” My eyes crinkled in confusion at his words.
No?
“You will complete three pieces for me. A collection.”
Three pieces? It’d never been more than one. It was only ever one and now he wanted a whole collection? My confusion must have shown on my face for he turned to me with a newfound hardness in his eyes,
“Hmph” he hums between his teeth, his disapproval ringing heavily in the simple sound, “I need them in two weeks,” he added, all the while never taking his cold eyes off of me. I scoffed and he took a step forward, grasping my chin between his thumbs in a touch strong enough to bruise.
“Will that be a problem?” he growled.
Panic flooded my system. Two weeks was nothing, a flickering of the lights in an artist's world. I’d never completed a full fleshed-out piece in two weeks. In all our exchanges it was always a month. A month to complete my piece for him in which I could escape the devil and pretend that my art was my own. Pretend that he hadn't tainted what I loved just like he had everything else in my pathetic life. And now he expected me to have three, fully completed works?
Impossible.
But to deny him would be suicide.
I smothered a laugh. As if I even had a choice in the first place. He knew he owned me. I was chained to him like an animal destined to obey. And still, my stubbornness fought me. Crawled through the ocean of my thoughts and gasps for air.
“Two weeks is nothing,” I mumble through gritted teeth. “I need more time.” The words barely have the chance to escape my lips before his hand smacks against my face.
“You will do this for me.” The words were patient, calm, his mask fully reassembled. My hands flew to my cheek as I vaguely attempted to nurse away the sting of his slap.
“Don't you realize, you silly, stupid girl. I own you.” He stepped forward ,and I backed away, my back pressing against the wall, “Just like I owned your daddy.” He spat in my face, and I recoiled.
“Perhaps I should pay a visit to your pretty little mama?” His words were cruel, and my head hurt from the force in which I shook its refusal. He grinned like he knew he won. The look absolutely vile on his clean skin.
“I bet she even has a jar of daisies next to her bedside.” I narrowed my eyes at him. How did he know about the daisies?
A look of triumph flashed in his eyes, “She does. I can see it in your eyes.” He laughed, the sound softly escaping his lips, “They always were her favorite.” For a minute, his gaze went out of focus, almost like he was caught somewhere in the past, and then his eyes were on me like two flaming candles.
“Two weeks.” He yanked my chin so we were eye to eye, “Three pieces.” I cringed as his loose hand made its way around my neck, squeezing lightly. “Think you got that little Rosie?” I nodded, the fight in me having been doused out with a bucket of bitter reality.
“Don't disappoint me.” He ran out my door, slamming it behind him.
