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Then I turn back to my canvas, worried I might have added something too grizzly without considering what that might look like to the rest of the world.
My heart stops, my stomach twisting.
“That’s… powerful,” she adds, sounding rather impressed.
I can hardly agree.
Rather than an image of my brother, I have managed to capture a perfect likeness of Efrem. And while his face looks devastatingly handsome, as always, I can see in the dark shading and the ominous gaze just how I feel about him.
My painting is both the best canvas I’ve ever painted—and utterly terrifying.
I’ve never considered the possibility that Ben and Efrem look similar before. And they don’t, really. They might both have blue eyes and blond hair, but that’s about where the likeness ends. Ben’s hair was always more towhead blond and on the curly side, his face more gentle and rounded.
Efrem’s golden hair has always been straight, falling into his eyes unless he combs it back with product. And his jaw is far more square, his face strong and angular. Nothing about him has ever been soft—except his eyes, which they aren’t here.
Still, when I thought I was painting my brother, it turns out my mind still lingers on Efrem.
“If this is the kind of content you’re going to start delivering, you might have more talent in painting than I first realized,” Professor Edwards jokes with a soft smile.
I try for a smile, too, swallowing down the bile that rises in my throat. “Thanks,” I say after a moment of hesitation. “But I still think photography is my calling.”
“Well, I see no reason you can’t practice both,” she hints. Then she turns back to my painting. “I love what you’ve done with the colors. You’re definitely utilizing my lessons on how it evokes emotion. Though his face is still a bit abstract, I can see the conflict here. He’s clearly had a strong impact on you.”
Her eyes color with worry as she glances at me. “Who is he to you, Dani?”
Her tone is casual enough, but I sense the underlying concern.
“No one,” I assure her vehemently. “Someone from my past that I have no communication with anymore.” I hope.
Professor Edwards nods, her eyes studying my expression for several moments. “Well,” she says, ending the silence after it grows almost painful. “You’ve certainly tapped into a powerful source of emotions, and you’re painting it beautifully. Great work. Keep it up.”
Then she walks away, leaving me dumbfounded.
I turn back to my painting, studying as I consider just what I’ve created.
Efrem’s likeness is full of life, even if his face seems to rise from the paint like a reflection. And it’s surprisingly realistic. But somehow, it looks nothing like the Efrem I thought I knew. The violence in his eyes reflects a malice I’ve never seen there. And the cold, calculating scrutiny of his eyes unnerves me. No, this face isn’t at all like Efrem’s, and yet, it perfectly captures who I see him as now.
I shiver at the thought. And while I’m tempted to slash deep crimson lines across the canvas, exing out his face, I leave it. I need this as my reminder of who Efrem really is, because I lose sight of it every time I have to face him.
His eyes do such a good job of hiding the truth when I’m in his presence.
Or maybe it’s just my feelings for him that cloud my judgment.
Dunking my brush in water, I force myself to start cleaning up. And as I let the paint dry, I can feel the message slowly sinking into my soul, solidifying as I work through my emotions. If this is the kind of therapy that comes from painting emotion, I can certainly understand why Silvia supports it.
Maybe this is what it takes to survive in a world like hers, surrounded by cold, cruel, violent men who can take life without a second thought and go home to kiss their wives without guilt.
That will never be me.
I don’t care how adamantly Efrem insists that I have nothing to fear from him.
I know, somewhere deep down, that he would never physically hurt me. But he has the ability to hurt me emotionally in a far worse way. And I refuse to let him drag me down like Mikhail did my brother.
So for my own good, I need to stay away.
And if not for my sake, then for the sake of my parents, who have already lost one child.
As I clean up my workstation, I glance sideways at the girl’s painting beside me. The happy colors showcase a sweet depiction of Central Park, three children playing together on a bed of green grass.
