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I’m not ready to let anyone see that part of me.
Thispart of me.
Because I can feel the darkness shimmering under the surface. That suffocating urge to let it consume me, eat me from the inside out and just purge everything.
My fingers tremble as I pick up the can of black paint and splash it on the biggest canvas available. It smudges all the others, but I pay it no attention as I grab another can and another until it’s all black.
Then I get my palette, my red colors, my palette knives, and my large brushes. I don’t think about it as I create bold strokes of red, then I kill the red with the black. I even use the ladder, sliding it from one end to the other to reach the highest point on the canvas.
I go at it for what seems like ten minutes when it’s actually a lot longer. By the time I step down from the ladder and slide it away, I think I’ll collapse.
Or dissolve.
Or maybe I could just go back to that cliff and let the lethal waves finish the job.
I’m panting, my heart pounding in my ears, and my eyes are about to bleed the same red on the painting I just finished.
This can’t be.
This…just can’t be.
Why the hell would I paint this…this symphony of violence?
I can almost feel that raw touch on my heated skin. I can feel his breath over me, his control, and how he took it from me in return. I can see him in front of me with those dead eyes, tall like the devil and with the same imposing presence, his way of taking everything from me.
I can almost hear his mocking voice and his effortless manner of speech.
I can even smell him—something woodsy and raw that causes my air to get stuck at the back of my throat.
My fingers slide to my neck to where he touched me—no, choked me—when a zap slashes through my body and I drop my hand, startled.
What the hell am I doing?
What happened earlier was obscure, disturbing, and absolutely not something I should paint with these raw details.
I’ve never even drawn anything this big before.
Wrapping my arms around my middle, I’m about to hunch over from the assaulting pain.
Shit.
I think I’m going to throw up.
“Wow.”
The low word coming from behind me startles me and I flinch as I turn my head to face my brother.
The more approachable of the twins—thankfully.
Brandon stands near the door, wearing khaki shorts and a white shirt. His hair, a realistic imitation of dark chocolate, flies in all directions, as if he just rolled out of bed and landed in my studio.
He throws a finger in the general direction of my horror-esque canvas. “You did that?”
“No. I mean, yeah…maybe. I don’t know. I certainly wasn’t in my right mind.”
“Isn’t that the state of mind all artists strive for?” His eyes soften. They’re so blue, so light, so passionate, like Dad’s. So troubled, too.
Ever since he developed that strong aversion to eyes, Brandon hasn’t been the same.
