AllFreeNovel
Share Us
It’s strange, both dreading something and feeling completely immersed in it anyway.
The second we get back to the house, I head straight up into the studio. Marina follows with some tea and soup; she pats me on the knee and promises to check in on me soon. I don’t see Erick anywhere, and that’s fine.
He’s only a distraction right now.
I pull out the correct kind of canvas, something Erick had sourced for me a few days ago. There are historically accurate brushes and paints in most of the colors I’ll need. I sit down on my stool, get my work space ready, and close my eyes, trying to picture every detail ofThe Concertall over again.
Except I see that conference room instead.
The vicious, ugly look on that old man Gallo’s face as he gleefully talked about gutting me in public.
The cold, detached stare of Frost, like I was some kind of money-making machine for him to play around with.
Those are the men Erick’s keeping me from.
And some part of me is happy he’s doing it. If it weren’t for him, they would’ve played out all those violent fantasies on me already. I would’ve suffered, and suffered in horrible ways.
But that suffering is abstract, and the suffering I’m about to go through is very real.
I eat and drink, thinking the whole time, trying to get my mind off my problems, trying to focus on the one thing I can control.
This painting.
It’s my entire life now. I feel so intimately connected with each stroke, each spot, every line, like I came up with it myself.
“I owe you more. I know this isn’t enough.”
I jump and turn as Erick steps into the studio carrying more paint. He places the cans carefully down on my work bench.
“You’re right, it’s not enough.”
“You’ll have what you need. I promise.”
“How about more time?”
“You were there, Hellie. You know what we’re working with.”
I nod, turning away. I’m just being difficult for no reason. I can yell and scream at him all I want, but nothing will change my situation.
“Did you know they were going to kill me?” I ask, not trusting myself to watch his face as he answers.
“Yes,” he says.
“And you took me anyway? You knew they’d be angry about it.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Why? You didn’t know me.”
“I knew you.”
I turn to stare at him. “No, you didn’t.”
“I knew you,” he insists, hesitating. “Wait here.”
“Erick, hold on. Where are you—” But he’s gone. He strides out of the studio and I’m shaking my head. Typical asshole, just walks away when we’re in the middle of a conversation like I’m supposed to dote on his every whim. Frustration rolls through me but I keep it in check. A few minutes later, he appears again, but this time he’s carrying a canvas.
It’s not a large painting. Three feet across by two-and-a-half long. Slashes of brightness contrasted by a traditional subject: two people standing in front of a lake. But their skin is bright pink, their hair down to their ankles, the water a strange and impossible cerulean, the sky itself beginning to twist like a hurricane. That bit was created in a manic-like state one night after a particularly shitty day at work. I’d know, because it’s one of mine.
