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Chapter One
Amber
Thehandsoftheclock tick like they have arthritis. I stand at the far end of the room, brush in hand, lost in the swirling labyrinth of my thoughts. The grandeur of the room envelopes me, every corner dripping with opulence. Gilded frames adorn the walls, and chandeliers hang like crystalline stalactites from the ceiling. A Persian rug, worth more than my annual rent, stretches underfoot.
My muse, an elderly lady in her late sixties, beckons me back to consciousness. She clears her throat gently, a sound like a distant bell chiming through a serene forest.
“Amber, dear, are you alright?” she inquires, her voice carrying the years of wisdom that have etched lines on her face.
I glance at her, pausing my brush mid-air. “Yes, Mrs. Harrington, I’m perfectly fine,” I reply with a faint smile. She’s made up meticulously, every wrinkle concealed, and dressed in a fashionable ensemble that defies her age. She sits regally on an expensive sofa, her posture mirroring the poise of the room.
This room is a world apart from what I’m accustomed to. When the cab dropped me in front of this majestic building, my jaw nearly hit the ground. Since my arrival, I’ve been treated with a reverence I rarely encounter. Water, snacks, and treats have been offered, making my memories shift to a menagerie of past clients.
There were the whimsical ones, the ones who never paid their dues in full, leaving me with only scraps to move on with. Then there were the restless ones who couldn’t sit still for a painting. They fidgeted, swaying back and forth as if they had fire ants in their trousers. There would be a phone call here, and a meal to catch there. A wee here, and a poo there. A painting that would have taken just a few hours could stretch through a century.
And, of course, the predatory ones who made lewd advances. I shudder at the memory of one such incident. A middle-aged man had contacted me to come give him a live portrait painting. The amount he had to offer was more than my regular charge. I thought that the heavens had smiled on me that day.
I arrived at the apartment and called him when I was just outside the entrance. He had said that the door was open, and he ordered me to come in. The room was shrouded in a dim, sensual aura. Faint flickers of candlelight danced upon the walls, casting a soft, golden glow across the space. The air was thick with the smell of scented flowers, their fragrance weaving an intoxicating spell around me.
I stood hesitantly in the center of the room, my heart pounding like a caged bird. It was a stark contrast to the grandeur and opulence of the room I am currently painting in. This memory was a haunting one, a stark reminder of the darker side of my profession.
The man who had commissioned the portrait was middle-aged. His face on his profile had a wide smile, but there seemed to have been something eerie hidden in the shadows, his intent concealed beneath a veneer of charm. I had accepted the commission, my eagerness to support my art overpowering my initial unease. But as I entered the dimly lit studio, a cold shiver slithered down my spine. It felt like a set for a forbidden affair, a scene out of a novel I’d never want to star in.
I tried to shake off the unease that had settled in the pit of my stomach as I began to set up my easel and canvas. My brush quivered slightly in my hand, betraying my anxiety. I told myself that I was a professional, that I could handle any situation with grace and poise. But my heart raced as I dipped my brush into the palette of colors.
Just as I was attempting to regain my composure and focus on the task at hand, he emerged from the shadows. My breath caught in my throat as he stepped into the dim circle of candlelight.
He was clad in nothing but his underwear, his body sculpted and oiled. The sight was meant to be alluring, seductive, but to me, it was nothing short of unsettling. His gaze bore into me, his eyes dark with desire.
I took a step back, my heart pounding in my chest. “Please, sir, I’m here to paint your portrait,” I stammered, trying to keep my voice steady.
But he paid no heed to my words, closing the distance between us with predatory grace. His fingers brushed against my arm, sending my bowels into knotted folds. Panic coursed through me, and I knew I had to escape this unsettling scenario.
“Hey pretty,” he had said. “I’d let you paint me, but I’d paint you too,” he bickered with a fishy smile.
By this time, I could already taste the blood pumping into my mouth. Or could I?
Without hesitation, I hastily packed my brushes and canvas, leaving behind the dimly lit room and its seductive ambience. The man had reached to hold me, but I slid through his oily hands, fleeing from that place, my heart heavy with the weight of unease and fear. As I stepped out into the cool evening air, I vowed never to compromise my principles again.
Chastity, for me, is not a mere word but a fierce resolve. I’ve chosen to hold down my chastity until I find true love and marriage. It’s a path I’ve walked unwaveringly, despite the beckoning apples that I’ve come across on my path.
And for some reason, I chose this path because I don’t want to, in any way, become something close to what Lisa is. At least, it’s easier to call her that, rather than Mother.
As I resume my painting, the strokes of my brush become more fluid, and the elderly lady before me seems to melt into the canvas. Her eyes, though scrutinizing, hold a warmth that puts me at ease. I am here to capture her essence, to paint the wisdom that resides in the lines on her face and the sparkle in her eyes.
The clock continues its relentless march forward, and I lose myself once again in the world of colors and forms. Mrs. Harrington sits patiently, a silent observer of my artistic journey, as I strive to bring her portrait to life.
“How long have you been painting, Amber?” she asks, staring intently at me. She sits upright, leaning in to hear me.
I smile. “A little bit less than all my life, maybe. . .”
She chuckles. “Wow. I really can’t wait to see what it looks like.” She leans over her cushion and reaches over to get a glass of water. She takes a sip, drops the glass, and leans back into the seat.
Just then, the large door swings open like a whale’s mouth, and a young lady walks in. I’m taken aback. My heart slows down. My mind spins like a merry-go-round and my thoughts escalate on a time travel.
My attention is drawn like a magnet to her figure. She moves with a grace that’s almost ethereal, her steps measured and deliberate, as if every stride is a carefully orchestrated ballet.
She is a study in elegance, from the gentle sway of her auburn hair to the soft rustle of her flowing dress. Her eyes, deep and knowing, survey the room with a subtle curiosity. Her features are striking, yet soft and inviting. The high cheekbones on her face frame a faint smile that carries a hint of mystery alongside her lips that are painted in a shade of crimson. A single strand of pearls graces her neck, a testament to her refined taste and timeless style.
