AllFreeNovel
Share Us
EMERSON
Daphne’s anger was intoxicating. It left a mark on my skin that I see every time I look in a mirror. It peeks out of the collar of my shirt. She bit hard enough that it lingers. It’s like one of her paintings brought to life. Its energy hums through my house. A constant undertone. The inverse of the ocean’s white noise. It gave everything a dangerous, shimmering edge. I think—though I can’t know, without actually seeing her family—that the specific frequency of that anger was born in her. The most cursory research on the Morellis reveals that their empire was built on the threat of retaliation. On the threat of rage. Rumors like this, in my experience, are almost always exaggerated for the benefit of whomever is whispering them.
However.
There is a kernel of truth.
Her denial was fascinating before that. Wide-eyed and disbelieving and hot. Like emerging from a dark room into blinding light. The senses can’t comprehend it at first and it registers as shock. As pain. On Daphne’s face, those emotions are breathtaking.
Her withdrawal makes me feel something else.
Guilt.
The fire in her dark eyes is gone. They well with crystal tears that appear and disappear in the multicolored light from outside. She’s been at this all day. Winter sun fades faster and the streaks of paint lose their luster as it goes. Daphne’s eyes usually burn. With curiosity. Intelligence. Desire.
They’re down to bare flickers like a spent candle.
I assumed she wouldn’t take it so hard, given how tightly her brother kept her guarded. An incorrect assumption. Captivity is a shock for her. When I saw her at her easel, I considered adding to the experience. Coaxing it into something else. I wanted to, but I didn’t. I went back to my bed and didn’t sleep.
The windows—
Christ. The windows are something else.
I have my suspicions that this is the largest piece Daphne’s ever painted, and she did not enjoy it. It’s a purposeful departure from her usual work. Like she’s refusing to access that part of herself.
Daphne’s lips part. Her eyes are enormous and sorrow-filled. No glint. No gleam. She hooks a hand into the collar of her sweater, not bothering to hide it from me. Hardly noticing, I think. “I’m not hungry.”
Another glance at the windows. They’re completely covered. Not a spare inch of glass. “You’re not this, either.”
Daphne looks, too. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Yes, I do. Because I’ve watched her. Because I can’t stop. I wanted to see her emotions on her body, but I didn’t want to see this particular set.
“You don’t have to pretend.”
“What’s pretending about this?” Daphne twirls her paintbrush absently in her hand.
It’s a feeling that doesn’t translate into words. Not at first. “I don’t expect you to be happy.”
Her eyes snap to mine. “Is that what you think I painted? Happiness?”
“I think you painted the illusion of you. The one you think other people want to see.”
Daphne’s chin quivers. “You’re wrong. And you said it was better this way.”
“It is. At least you’re not refusing to paint.”
She gives a heavy, soul-deep sigh. “I don’t care if you want me to—”
“Not for me. For you. Not painting must be like holding your breath.” The corners of her mouth turn down. Daphne won’t meet my eyes. “It’s past lunch. Come down and eat.”
“No.”
There’s no fight in it. Not even a hint of the feral playfulness of her first night here. “Come down, or I’ll carry you.”
Daphne looks away.
She remains utterly still as I approach, lift her in my arms, and swing her over my shoulder. Having her close is an improvement, but not ideal. My little painter doesn’t so much as swing at me on the way downstairs. She doesn’t try to scratch me.
