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“I like this one,” my uncle said. He didn’t so much as glance at me again before turning to leave, and I waited until I heard the main door open and shut before I turned my stare back to my painting.
He liked this one. I did, too.
In the center of the large canvas, I’d left an outline of white, in the vague shape of a person. Reds of all hues surrounded the outline, like fire. Fire and blood and destruction.
It was funny, really, that my uncle liked this one, because it was one I liked to work on when I was thinking of Brianna.
Chapter Twenty – Brianna
Gareth kept talking to Erin, in spite of my protests otherwise. Erin was Miss Chatty Kathy during lunch about it, to the point where the others had pulled me aside after the bell rang and Erin wandered off to ask if something was going on, if I thought Gareth’s intentions were good. They were just looking out for their friend; I couldn’t blame them.
I told them I didn’t know, because I didn’t know Gareth. I’d lied.
Of course his intentions weren’t good, but I couldn’t tell them that Gareth was doing this all to get under my skin, to make me submit to him. I sure as shit couldn’t tell them that Gareth had threatened to torture, fuck, and murder her for me, either.
Thursday rolled around, and I knew I shouldn’t let it bother me so much. I should just tell Gareth what he wanted to hear, let him think he won. Just because I said the words didn’t mean it was true. I could lie to him, just like I apparently lied to everyone else about the true depth of Gareth’s depravity.
And yet I couldn’t. The car ride to and from school was quiet—the latter of which only because I was pissed at Erin for still talking to Gareth, even though I’d warned her to stay away from him. Like, I understood that girls with crushes sometimes did stupid things, but come the fuck on.
That night, I didn’t eat. I took a page out of Gareth’s book and locked myself away in my studio, sketching a portrait that, or once, wasn’t of myself. Most of my best work involved self-portraits. Skeletal sides matched with their whole sides. Skeletons staring at the faces they used to wear.
This time, it wasn’t me. No, instead of my face, I drew Gareth’s. I must’ve stared at his face too much, because the half with his face, flesh and all, came out damn near perfect. It was almost disappointing, seeing his sneering face—or half of it—staring back at me from the canvas.
Once it was fully sketched out, I wanted to punch a hole right through it.
I was damn near about to do just that when a knock permeated the air. My mom, knocking because the door was locked. “Brianna, Alistair sent me up here to see if you’re feeling well. You didn’t come downstairs for dinner.”
I wanted to laugh, but I couldn’t. It wasn’t my mom coming to check up on me; she was only here because of her new husband’s insistence. Figured. How ironic it was Alistair behind it and not, you know, the woman who had given birth to me.
“I’m fine.” It was all I could say, and I listened to her sigh and walk away. Yeah, she didn’t care enough to stand there and try to figure out what was wrong with me.
What was wrong? A lot. A hell of a lot.
When I was certain I was once again alone and wouldn’t be interrupted, I began to sketch the other half of the canvas, the skeletal part of Gareth. I didn’t get very far, however, because soon enough, another knock bounced off the door, and I hissed out, “I said I’m fine, go away!”
It wasn’t my mom, though, because whoever it was managed to unlock the door and come inside anyway. I assumed it was Gareth, but the man who entered, holding onto a butter knife and a plate of food—mashed potatoes, gravy, and meatloaf—wasn’t Gareth.
No, it was the other psycho in the house. My stepdad. The guy I’d practically begged to fuck me when I was out of my mind.
Yeah. I wasn’t too proud of that.
Alistair gave me a smile. A tiny one, one I almost missed by abruptly looking away from him… because I didn’t want to stare at him. The more I looked at him, the more I remembered what we’d gotten up to, and I was trying my best not to think of that day.
“Your mother said you were fine, but you really shouldn’t skip dinner,” he said, shutting the door behind him and coming toward me, setting the plate on the small table near me, where my pencils sat. “Pardon me for saying this, but she certainly doesn’t seem like she cares about you much.”
Pardon me.Yeah, right. Alistair used nice, gentle language here, but deep down, he was just another chilling psychopath.
I couldn’t look at him, so I tried to get back to work, sketching out the teeth on the skeletal side. “I’m used to it” was all I said, and I wished Alistair would get the hint and go. Having a heart to heart with him after what happened would be impossible.
Unless… this wasn’t meant to be a heart to heart—but, no. He wouldn’t try to come on to me when my mom could walk by and hear.
Damn it. I never should’ve slept with him.
“You shouldn’t have to be,” he told me, standing behind me, a bit too close. Maybe it was in my head, but I swore I could feel the heat radiating off his body and into mine. “Family is supposed to protect you. Your mother, I think, would be content with throwing you to the wolves.”
I wanted to laugh at that, but I couldn’t. All I managed to do was drop the pencil in my hand, letting it roll to the floor. I was about to bend over to pick it up when Alistair beat me to it. His tall frame bent, his fingers plucking the pencil off the floor, and when he stood straight once more, I swear, he was a lot closer to me than he’d been before. So close he damn near boxed me in against the canvas I was working on.
He offered it to me, and I gulped, muttered a “Thanks,” and tried to take it from him, but his grip on the pencil was too strong. He didn’t let it go.
