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And anyway, I don’t have Leo’s cutting barbs or Eva’s cool insults. People weren’t creative with the way they spoke to me in school. They didn’t want to risk the wrath of my brother. Everything my siblings have said in front of me flies out of my head. It’s too late for me to become like them. Jesus, it’s frustrating. I can’t keep that frustration off my face.
Emerson watches.
He doesn’t jerk away, no matter how hard I hit him. He doesn’t look wounded or nervous or tired.
He looks…
Fascinated.
My heart crumples in. For one beat, I’m slammed with pure recognition. I’m hitting him. I’m hitting him, and he’s so far outside his body that he’s watching this like a movie.
No.
It’s worse than that, isn’t it?
He’s watching like all my rage is nothing but paint splashed on canvas.
My hand flies out to slap him again. This time, Emerson catches the hit in midair and pushes it down like he’s deflecting a butterfly.
“Stop.” My throat is raw from crying and swallowing screams. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” Emerson’s so close I could lean in and kiss him. It wouldn’t take any effort at all. Instead I punch his chest again. “Little painter.”
“I’m not a painting. There is no frame.” I hurl his tone from earlier back in his face. There is no cage. Bullshit. He’s the cage, and he always has been. “If you’re going to look at me, then look. Stop pretending you’re not awful. Stop pretending to be good.”
Emerson blinks, but otherwise my words seem to have no effect. It’s not fair. Every time I look at him, I feel like running to my easel so I can paint. It feels like a tidal swell of energy. Like the thrill of stealing away into the night with him.
All my thoughts spill like wasted paint, swirling into each other until I can’t tell any of them apart. I can’t tell which comes first. The shame or the violence or the need.
Or maybe it’s all of them together. Deep enough to drown me.
They all come out through my fists. I’ll hurt him or die trying.
