“All is well in the world, Father.” I smirked.
He punched me in the shoulder. “Fucking smart ass.”
“Whoa, they teach you that language in seminary?” My smile faded as his jaw clenched. He’d never made it to seminary. He’d gotten his degree and that’s as far as he got. My mother wasn’t capable of living on her own, so Kieran had put his life on hold for her. “Sorry.” My shame brought my eyes to the floor. Both of my brothers had sacrificed so much, for her, for me. “I’m an asshole.”
“At least you’re truthful.” The smile was evident in his tone as I raised my eyes back to his.
“I’ll be in the back.”
Liam was busy working on an intricate back piece and raised his chin to me as I walked by. Ronnie was picking at her talon-like fingernails as I passed her station. Kemper, as always, during down time, was sniffing around, flirting, trying hopelessly to get her attention. If he actually looked beyond her tits and pretty face he’d realize she liked girls just as much as he did. The shop was organic. It lived off the creative blood of our staff, it swallowed and breathed, it fought to survive, and Liam… Liam was the heart of this place, and as I walked past each of the stations with their tall mirrors, clean, white floors, red leather tables, and black shelves, I smiled. My therapist had been telling me for years to stop harboring shit, to see things for what they were and, since my psychiatrist lowered my doses, I’ve been able to see so much more.
The cocktail I’d been taking had made me feel like a walking corpse. But at my last visit, the doctor lowered my dose of risperidone and finally stopped the clozapine. The new script for escitalopram was really starting to help with my depression and, the longer I was on it, the easier it became to deal with the memories of Paige, of everything we’d been through. Or so I’d hoped. I’d let the painting from the other night sit on my floor for a few days, avoiding, evading the fact I’d painted something so joyful, so full of happiness, and I hadn’t even remembered doing it. It wasn’t until two days ago that I’d finally framed it, and this morning, when I woke up and looked at it, it hurt a little less than the day before.
The break room was small, with only enough room for a black futon, side table, and a fridge. I opened the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of water before I sat down. I twisted the cap and the cold water slid down my dry throat. Licking my lips, I placed the bottle on the table, and then leaned my head back into the soft cushion. I’d been thinking about Paige a lot lately, and maybe it wasn’t a bad thing.
She left you.
You hurt her.
You let her do it.
I took my phone from my pocket and opened up the music files. I pressed the shuffle button, and when the first few notes played through the speaker, my pulse nearly stopped. It was the song I’d been listening to that day in ninth grade, when I’d gotten kicked out of class for mumbling. I hadn’t even realized I was doing it, always trying to subtly quell the nagging taunts my brain kept on repeat. The teacher had flipped, called me out in front of everyone, and then told me to spend the remainder of the period in the hall. I’d been sitting on the cold linoleum, with my back against the lockers listening to music, as I’d worked my latest creation across the thick brown paper that covered my textbook when Paige, for the first time, had looked at me… with more than just a morbid curiosity.
I’d had real conversations with her before that day. She’d remind me about tests, we’d steal glances across the cafeteria, the courtyard, the classroom, but that day—it’d been the day she’d said yes.
The Roots played with a caramel beat in my ear as I shaded the cheekbones and oval features of the girl on the corner of the cover. It was a rendition of her. Paige Simon. She was elegant: a fine line of curves, blonde hair that I was sure smelled like honey and sunshine, blue eyes that were ghostly, clear and soulful, but only for me. Only in those moments when she’d let herself see me.
She doesn’t see you.
I had to be more careful, I couldn’t get in trouble again, and I couldn’t add anymore shit to Liam’s plate. A pair of black Converse appeared against the beige floor, and I looked up. The tip of my pencil stilled. Her cherry lips were glossy as she spoke with a smile.
“I’m sorry?” I removed my headphones.
Her laugh was soft and warm and pink. “I asked if you wanted company. Mr. Ferris is a jerk.” She sat down before I could answer, and the smell of powder, cotton, and soap surrounded me.
She was wearing dark blue jeans and a light green shirt. The porcelain surface of her skin was creamy and, as she scooted closer to me, her arm brushed mine, and a shock ran up my spine.
“I lied and said I had to use the restroom, we only have like fifteen minutes left anyway.” She moved a piece of hair behind her ear, and then leaned in even closer; her eyes falling to the cover of my book. “You’re really talented, Declan.”
My fourteen-year-old hormones were raging, my fucked-up, crazy mind was spinning. I was sure this was a hallucination. I’d only had a few visual ones before, but this was all too real.
“It’s customary to just say thank you,” she said. Her smile was smart, soft, and it lit her eyes as I laughed.
“Thank you.”
“Can I tell you a secret?” Her eyes widened as she moved in, closing the electrically charged space between our arms. Her skin was touching my skin again. My heat was absorbing her heat. My throat went dry, and my heart thrummed behind my chest. “I like to draw, too. I have so many sketch pads at home, hidden in my closet, and someday…” Her voice was conspiratorial as she turned to look at me, she was close enough I felt her minty breath brush across the skin of my cheek. “I want to learn how to paint the things I see.”
I was captivated, my entire body was relaxed as I fell into her gaze. “Why is that a secret?”
“I’m supposed to learn how to play the piano, take anatomy, and become a doctor.” She rolled her eyes and leaned back, resting her head against the lockers, granting me a moment to catch my breath.
“You’re fourteen.” I chuckled.
“Do your parents plan out your life, too?” she asked. Her brows furrowed with an honest interest.
“My father can barely plan his own life beyond which bottle of whiskey he should open.”
The truth of my statement didn’t faze her. “And your mother?”
“She just hopes I make it out of high school.” My lips pulled into a sideways smile, and she shook her head with another full-bodied laugh. “What do you like to draw?” I asked.
“I like to create worlds, I like to make this boring little planet something more… surreal. I might have an obsession with Dali. We went to Florida last summer, and while we were there we visited the Dali Museum. I now find myself drawn to weird art and men with mustaches.” She shrugged, her face deadpan as if this was a normal thing to say.
“Mustaches?” I unconsciously lifted my fingers to my upper lip.
Her serious face broke into a smile that stretched almost past her ears. “You’d look good with a mustache.” She bit her lip suppressing a laugh and knocked her shoulder with mine. It was playful, flirty, and I suddenly had the urge to brush my knuckles across her bottom lip, her cheek, her stomach...
She pities you.
“What’s your favorite thing to draw?” she asked, giving me full eye contact.
You.
“It depends. I love graphic novels. My brothers’ and I, we’ve always been into comics. My older brother works at a tattoo shop. He’s better than me… at drawing.” And most things.
“I doubt that.” She crossed her feet and stretched her legs out into the hallway. “I wish I had half your talent.”
“You should show me something of yours sometime.” It was risky, but the way her arm still rested against mine, how her smile was shy, and her cheeks were heated with blush, I figured I’d throw myself on the grenade. “I could teach you some stuff, if you want?”
Her blue eyes deepened and filled with hope, anticipati
on, and something I’d later learn was longing… lust.
“Really?” She shoved my shoulder again with hers. It was light, cute, and I wanted her to say yes more than I wanted anything, more than I wanted the voices to stop.
I nodded.
“Okay.” Her lashes fanned down and dusted along the rising, rose color of her cheeks. “I’d really like that.”
The quiet was comfortable between us as we sat arm to arm, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder in the hallway. Not a whisper in my head, or an inkling of self-doubt. Just me and her and the most tempting thing of all… possibility.
Alarm clocks, overly excited chatter, car horns, sidewalk patrons shouting, cash registers dinging, door chimes, customers complaining, these had become the sounds of my life. The sounds of my future. But, in the dark, in the night—silence. Silence so still it suffocated me. It drowned me. Clark used to talk in his sleep. He’d moan, or make some illogical statements. Our backyard sprinklers would spray the windows in timed perfection. Here, in Lana’s house this morning, as I got ready for work, all I could hear were my own thoughts, and my worries ate me alive from the inside out. Where did I go from here?
It had been exactly one month since I’d left Clark. My parents were refusing to accept it. I hadn’t braved a visit to them yet, and they weren’t too pleased that I was staying with Lana. My new address, though, magically never came up in conversation, leading me to believe they probably didn’t really care how I was, that I wasn’t with Clark was more of their pressing concern. My mom tried to coddle me, told me to “take my time.” My father had said, “He’ll take you back, let him give you another chance.” That phone call, as productive as it was, had been the last time I’d chosen to call my parents. I’d visit them when I was ready, once my divorce was final. Clark had acquired an attorney, and he called me yesterday to inform me that the paperwork would take a little longer than expected. Lana was not impressed and gave me the number to one of her friends from school with a wife who was a divorce attorney. Apparently, this friend was the only professor she hadn’t slept with.
The weight of the attorney’s business card was heavy in my hand as I sat on my bed. I stared at the artful lettering, the sleek black design, and my stomach knotted. I already owed Lana so much. She’d gone and gathered my clothes from Clark and gave me a place to sleep each night. She hadn’t wanted to charge me rent but I’d insisted, even if I couldn’t really afford it. I had acquired a job at a small art store downtown and it paid very little, but I had to start somewhere. I had a high school diploma and a love for Surrealism. In the real world, that equated to starving artist, at best. There was no way I would be able to afford an attorney. I exhaled a long breath, stood, and placed the card on my night stand. My room was small, the bed, hardly full sized, and the large, dark black dresser took up most of the free space. The mirror above it ridiculed me. My eyes were so tired, the blue color of my irises barely visible anymore. My heart ached. Declan had always told me that my eyes would come alive when I looked at him.
My dead eyes closed as I remembered the first day I’d seen him, shutting out my now haggard appearance in the mirror, focusing on a better time. It was my first year in high school, and I remembered how he’d sat across the courtyard from where I’d been sitting with Lana and a few friends for lunch. I’d thought he’d looked too masculine to be in ninth grade. He’d seemed quiet, beautiful with lean muscles, and a jawline too strong for a teenage boy. I’d watched him for weeks before I’d finally gotten the courage to speak to him. It’d been just like every other day with our stolen glances, but his light eyes stayed on mine longer than they ever had before.
The vivid memory caused my eyes to open, and I watched my reflection in the glass. My cheeks turned pink, and the heat in my chest burned through the skin as I recalled that day. The day I took unsteady steps toward where he’d sat. The day his deep voice filled my head with cotton. The day I saw my eyes in the drawing on his lap.
I brought my hand to my heart and rubbed my palm along my sternum until it hurt. The pain had never faded, but thinking about him, about us, made it almost impossible to breathe. The stark white walls of my room and bedding felt too cold. It felt as if I was in some type of sterile purgatory, and even if I was grateful for the roof over my head, the soft pillows to have nightmares on, I wanted to make it my own. And as I watched the color, the memory, drain from my cheeks, I decided I’d stop letting men control my life. But my soul, it no longer belonged to me. I’d given it to the Devil the day I’d killed my baby, our child—Declan’s heart.
“So what are you saying?” Chandler watched me with a smirk, and I narrowed my eyes.
“I’m saying I’m married,” I spoke softly, my eyes cast down. Chandler’s eyes scanned my body, as if there was something to like, to desire. I was a waste of what I’d once been, and I certainly didn’t deserve the looks he’d been giving me since I started at The Gallery.
“But you’re separated? Available?” His husky voice held humor, and I raised my gaze to his.
I shook my head with a small smile. “You’re determined, I’ll give you that much.” I leaned down and grabbed a box of supplies from where I stood behind the counter and placed it onto the work surface. “Hand me that box cutter, please?” I asked as I pointed to his pile of boxes in the aisle.
He grabbed the red knife from the top box and brought it over to the register. “That’s not a no.” He was hopeful.
“Chandler, I’m flattered, but I’m barely remembering what it feels like to be human. I’m not ready to date. Not to mention the fact that it would still be considered infidelity.” I took the box cutter from his hand and opened the blade. It cut through the packing tape like butter, and when the box opened, I couldn’t help my grin. Paints. Every possible color in oil and acrylic.
“That’s the first big smile I’ve seen on you.” His grin mirrored mine and, as much as it felt good to let a little joy shine, I let my smile fall.
“Well, it’s been known to happen from time to time.” I gave him a stern look. “I’m serious. I’m not ready.”
He exhaled. “Okay.”
My eyebrows raised. That was too easy. He’d been hitting on me for two weeks, since my first day. “Okay?”
He nodded and turned back to his pile of boxes. “I’ve gotta haul these back to the studio, just leave those paints for tomorrow. Can you help me carry some of these?”
“Sure.” I lifted the box from the counter and placed it back on the ground.
“One of our regulars is coming tomorrow. He booked the studio last week. I’ll show you how to set everything up.” Chandler’s smile was repentant. Maybe he really would back off.
The boxes were heavy and it only took us three trips to get everything back to the studio. The Gallery was an art supply store and had a huge open space in the back that the owner rented out to the local artists to use. It was perfect for large canvases, and a lot of the local, urban artists rented the place out by the hour. Sometimes we’d even sell the artwork here at the store if that’s what the client wanted. This place was perfect. It had everything I’d ever dreamed of, and I couldn’t wait to test out the studio one day for myself.
I helped Chandler carry a huge canvas to the center of the back wall. It was sixty inches wide by thirty-six inches tall. My excitement spread across my skin in the form of goose bumps. My eyes danced across the blank canvas as I imagined what the artist would spill onto its surfaces tomorrow. I was dying to see the sprawling art, to breathe in the beauty, to see color, alive, and swirled with a talented hand. See life brought to the dull, white rectangle.
“There’s that smile again. You keep it up, I’ll have no other choice than to ask you out every time I see you.” Chandler grinned and I laughed.
I laughed and the sound of it echoed in the empty space. It sounded foreign, as if the music of it didn’t belong to me, as if I hadn’t laughed in months. I hadn’t, not freely, not with actual mirth.
“Thanks,”
I said.
Chandler quirked his left eyebrow. “For what?”
“For… for making me laugh, I guess,” I stuttered. I wasn’t sure how I should explain to the guy I worked with that my life had been soundless, boring, not even worthy of gray paint, and the fact that he made me laugh, even if the moment was small, I was grateful for it.
“Well, if laughter is the way to go… then—”
I giggled. “It was a thank you. Not an invitation.”
He ran his hand through his coffee brown hair. His smile was pulled wide. In an easier time I might’ve thought him handsome. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
His advances were mostly in jest, so I didn’t let it bother me. If anything, it was a comfortable routine, and routine was all I had known for the past nine years that I’d been with Clark. Chandler walked me through the list of what the customer had ordered for the next day. He showed me where to find the palette, the brushes, the supplies, even spray paint. By the time we were finished setting up, the store had been closed for over an hour. It was just past eight and I was tired and a smidge starving. Chandler walked me to my car, and it wasn’t until I was tucked inside that he finally felt it was safe to leave. He was a genuine kind of guy, maybe I could set him up with Lana. She needed to stop with the professor thing. I shook my head and puffed out an exacerbated laugh. I reached into my purse, found my keys, started the engine, and turned the A/C on full blast. The heat of the day was thick within the small confines of my car.
My phone vibrated on the passenger seat and, when I opened the lock screen, I saw I had a couple of texts from Lana.
Lana: There’s a package here for you, I’m putting it on your bed. I think it’s from Clark.
My heart leapt into my throat. I hated that he knew where I was, but maybe the papers had been finalized already? I scrolled down to her next text from an hour ago.
Lana: I’m on my way home from class, going to grab a pizza. Want?
Possession Page 4