by Barefoot, LW
I allow myself to focus on his blurry face as his hands wrap around my throat. Headlines and news programs flood my mind as I slip away from consciousness. Thankful I died at my hands and not his. I found strength while he exploited my many weaknesses. That’s right you sick bastard, I’ve still got fight in me.
I find the way he looks at me broken and no longer perfect in his eyes as some sort of tiny reward.
As he shakes me back to the present one last time, he declares, “I’ll follow you into the dark, my love, I swear I will come after you.”
I black out in his confusion to finish me off faster or save my life.
The look in his eyes promises me this isn’t the end. In this life and most definitely the next.
The Sculptor’s Last Victim
Five Years Later
What helps get me through the day? What makes living any easier? I’m still trying to figure that out. But my attempts at escape worked. I lived after all I’ve been through. A scarred up, left over mess. I still catch my breath when the Sculptor’s words whisper through me… “You will thank me someday. You will realize you would have never made it without me.”
His voice haunts my every breath. His words echo and come up at the most inopportune times. It makes me unstable and insecure in almost everything I do.
I plaster on my false exterior and smile to investors and patrons observing and purchasing my paintings.
“Harper, come here,” my agent calls to me over a glass of champagne.
He must know by now that I linger by the gallery exit in hopes of using it. Tom is relentless in his efforts to get me center stage. He assumes my ego will kick in. Hopeful that I will finally accept praise and applause for my accomplishments. But that will never happen. The truth is, my paintings are every bit my own memoir. Exclusive pages of my internal torment. Each completed canvas reads deeper than anything I could ever express with words. I’ve fought like hell to reclaim that small freedom the Sculptor stole from me. He used my paintbrush like a weapon and I refuse to let him take that away from me. I paint like my life depends on it, because at one time it did.
I school my features to not betray my struggle to abandon this last half of the event. I walk the short distance over to Tom.
The thrumming music dies down as all eyes turn to me. Tom places a glass in my hand. This is my least favorite part of the evening regardless of what city I happen to be in.
“Here’s to the very talented Harper,” Tom toasts.
His smile is wide and full of encouragement. The gallery owner adds in a few lines that sound like every other proprietor who has represented my work.
I feel the blush creep up my neck and color my cheeks. No matter how many times I do this, it never gets easier. I signal the DJ to turn the music back up so I can fade back in the shadows again. Even though I fool every single person in attendance.
I’m grateful, but always conflicted. I smile and force myself to relax when someone tries to hug me, but it makes my skin crawl. My actions and reactions are on a never ending roller coaster at every single art exhibit. With each completed canvas, I regain a piece of myself I lost. My therapist praises me about my progress and even in that environment I want to evaporate.
“Harper, let’s go celebrate your success. I know of this place not far from here that makes the best martinis,” Tom suggests.
He means well, but unlike most people I don’t need words of affirmation or celebratory cocktails. I need to get back to my hotel room. After I check and double check the deadbolt, I take a bath and check the locks again. Then and only then am I be able to let out the deep breath I’ve been holding since I landed at the airport.
“I have an early flight to catch in the morning. Some other time?” I ask.
“Okay, but you have to promise to stop flying out immediately after your shows. This could be a great opportunity for you to live a little and enjoy some of the perks of traveling.”
He stops talking when he realizes what he’s suggesting. He knows about my past. Maybe not all of it, but enough to know that I have to lay low. It’s crucial I stay out of the public eye. No, only one set of eyes that still have the power to stop my heart with just the mention of his famous title.
“I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant, Harper.”
“It’s okay, I understand what you’re getting at. I’m planning on staying a few days in Chicago. Jamie and Rufus are coming with me.”
I smile as he rolls his eyes. Jamie and I’s makeshift family is something Tom finds amusing. Jamie is the only connection to my past life. He found me, saved my life, and we share one now with my English Bulldog, Rufus. My foster brother and my ridiculous dog are the only reasons I have to live and keep going.
Tom signals to my driver when he escorts me out of the building.
“By the way, I have someone I’d like you to meet in Chicago,” he smiles.
He hugs me before I make it off the curb and I hug him back as his words sink in.
I’m driven to the hotel to prepare for heavy deadbolts, and whispered threats and promises until daylight saves me.
Harper
I’m consumed with anxiety when I leave, and elation when I come back home. Several cities in the rotation of hiding from the Sculptor, New Orleans is the only one I have refused to leave. It’s the perfect place to blend in and out of society.
As the taxi moves through the city, I’m welcomed by haunted graveyards and ancient buildings that have endured the decay of time and weather. The battered buildings and peeling paint serve as a reminder that even in their current state there is still beauty to be found in them. The first time I experienced the city that stole what was left of my shattered heart, I felt a sick sort of kinship with it. The city famous for being abused, drowned, wrecked, and ravaged is slowly making a come-back and it’s never been better. Maybe through seeing the broken pieces of its ancient slate sidewalks and crumbling facades, I felt like if this place can make it, then so can I. I appreciate the hell out of the insistence that not everything has to be perfect here. Those peeling layers of paint didn’t need to be fixed, those cracks didn’t need to be filled. The chaos is not only embraced, but cherished and celebrated. My broken soul finally felt at home.
Rufus snores away on the couch when I open the front door of my shared townhouse. He slowly starts to wake up, like only lazy dogs have the ability to do and he wiggles in excitement as he stretches. Before I indulge him, I turn to lock the door behind me, and reset the security system.
I relax a little as I pet Ru’ and take in the living room. Everything appears to be as I left it with the exception of Jamie’s shoes and a couple of empty beer bottles on the coffee table. I walk up the creaky stairs that lead to my bedroom and studio. Ru’ follows me, huffing and snorting his signature sounds.
I flip on the water in the antique claw foot bathtub to wash away the effects of travel. Jamie comes in and wraps me up in his arms while I wait for the ancient pipes to cooperate. He picks me up and squeezes too tight.
“Hi, little lady.”
He squeezes even harder until I’m laughing and I struggle to get out of his arms.
“I didn’t think you were home or I wouldn’t have come up here right away,” I explain.
“No problem. How was your exhibit?” Jamie asks.
“Good. Every single painting has a new place to call home.”
“I’m sure that made Tom happy. How is the old bastard?”
Jamie and Tom have an interesting relationship. Jamie wasn’t happy about me attending the art shows without Tom’s consent to make sure there were no pictures taken of me and there was provided security. It wasn’t enough for us to be under FBI protection, to Jamie, there could never be enough precaution when it came to our situation.
He sets me back down on the tiled floor, walks over to the vanity, and leans against it.
“Tom’s good.” I deliver the next line with care. “He mentioned something about me meeting someone in Chicago.�
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I look up from the running water after testing the temperature and put the stopper in.
“What?” I ask, assuming he’s going to back me up on why I don’t need to meet anyone, but he surprises me.
“I think it might be good for you,” he says.
He studies me, assessing my mood. He knows me better than I know myself.
“Don’t look at me so surprised. I really do think it will be good for you. Actually, I’ve been thinking about this for a while now,” he admits. His warm smile highlights the dimples in his cheeks. “It’s time to start leaving the past in the past. You deserve to be happy and not looking over your shoulder every time you leave the house.”
“But that’s what got me in trouble in the first place, because I didn’t pay attention.”
He walks over to where I’m resting on the edge of the tub and leans down to press a kiss to my forehead.
“He’s not going to find you. I swear to you that you’re safe. It’s been almost five years. It’s time to move on,” he whispers with assurance.
We never talk about the Sculptor or the past. We survived our childhood together in the foster care system. We survived the trauma the Sculptor inflicted. We’ve created a new life for ourselves, picking up the pieces, and appreciating every second we have together because we both feel like we’re already on borrowed time.
It was clear from the beginning we needed to work out the ordeal on our own. It took one therapy session to prove disastrous. Jamie needed to talk through what I endured and I desperately needed to forget it ever happened. He needs to forgive himself for not being there to protect me. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve tried to reassure him that it wasn’t his fault.
“I think you might be right,” I admit.
I smile to help convince him of my honesty.
“How did your interview go?” I ask.
We’re both grateful for the change in subject.
“I landed it. You need to rest up, we are going out tonight to celebrate.”
He absently runs his hand down my cheek.
“Congratulations. You’ve worked so hard for this. I’m really proud of you.”
He shrugs off my praise and holds my gaze.
“I’m making reservations as we speak, any suggestions?”
“Surprise me, you’re the food snob, Chef,” I tease.
I’m so happy I can finally call him by the earned title. He winks and walks through the open bathroom door with his phone in his hand. His dark blond hair catches light from the antique chandelier in my bedroom. I close the door in case Jamie comes back in. I undress and sink into the hot water. The tub is deep enough to allow the water up to my chin when I lean back. The tension loosens from travel and being in a new environment.
My hand drifts down to the scars and I shiver as I feel the ragged skin. In an instant, I’m transported to another time and place. My constant reminder of how I couldn’t possibly move on.
Several hours later, I make my way downstairs to find out where we are going. Music streams in through the open patio doors that lead out through the kitchen. I’m still in my bathrobe from earlier and Ru’ is on my heels.
Lush greenery and a large bubbling fountain greet us in the shared courtyard. Outdoor furniture circles around the water feature. On any given night there is always someone out here. Either grilling out, reading, or socializing. Tonight there appears to be more people than usual.
The group of Jamie’s friends all look up from their drinks as I walk out of the house. I tighten my robe as one of them stares longer than the rest of them. I don’t think we have met before, the other guys I recognize.
“Harper, we were just talking about you,” Jamie says as he turns around in his chair to face me.
“I wanted to know where we’re going for dinner, so I know what to wear,” I exclaim.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I stop listening to Jamie. The stranger is unashamed and openly staring at me as Jamie keeps talking. He looks better suited to be at one of my exhibits than he is of drinking an Abita in our courtyard.
Jamie usually hangs with a random assortment of people, but by the way this guy is dressed he doesn’t quite fit in. His confident gaze says he doesn’t give a damn about it either.
His Rolex flashes the reflection off the gas lantern as he brings the bottle of beer to his lips. His eyes never leave mine. I feel my face heat when his bright green eyes move to my lips while he licks his. I snap out of it once I realize I’m staring back.
I offer the rest of them a smile and turn around to go back inside. I try to make my escape look like I’m confidently walking to get dressed, but I feel as if I’m running away from the intense stare of the impossibly handsome stranger. I’ve never wanted the attention of one in the past, so why his heated gaze has foreign thoughts spinning, I have no idea.
After I get ready, I decide to make myself a drink before meeting up with everyone. I stumble into a hard chest while rounding the corner on my way to the kitchen. I lose my balance and teeter in my tall heels. I take a deep breath and inhale, my attention shoots up to whoever I ran into.
The stranger from the patio clings to me. He smashes me against him and wraps me up in his arms to keep me from falling back on my ass.
“Shit. I’m sorry,” he says.
He clings even tighter while I try to regain my balance. Our arms awkward to keep each other from falling. I have to use his chest for support and place my palms on him to collect myself.
“I should be the one apologizing. These damn heels are going to leave me with a broken face,” I try to make a joke of my clumsiness. But I’m afraid my weak knees have nothing to do with gravity at this point.
His wavy black hair is messy and equally perfect. The dark hair on his face is polished and rugged and plays into his angular contours. It darkens the effect of his features with the exception of his stunning eyes. His cologne is dark and woodsy, warmth and comfort with a hint of spice.
I step back to put space between us and to cleanse the delicious scent of him.
“Ditch the heels, I think we’re walking to the restaurant. If it weren’t for me plowing you over, you could have broken that gorgeous face on the sidewalk.”
“I don’t think I caught your name,” I state.
“Evan,” he introduces himself.
A small grin plays at his full lips when he notices my embarrassment from his statement.
“Harper, pleasure to meet you.”
“Trust me, the pleasure is all mine.”
He steps away from me after a heavy second of our eyes connecting and neither one of us want to break the contact. He walks to the guest restroom, his intoxicating scent trails behind him.
I take him up on changing my heels for boots and I lock Rufus in the house. We walk as a group to dinner. There are more people with us than I expected. Jamie walks ahead of us to greet some of the other friends. The narrow sidewalks make it impossible to walk in any way other than two by two.
Evan stays by my side while we stroll through the cool night to our destination. At times moving away from water falling from plants on balconies above us or broken pieces of slate below our feet. I’m hyperaware of when we brush up against each other out of necessity, but I don’t like that my mind keeps tabs on it happening and I’m looking forward to it happening again.
‘You’re mine, sweet slut, stop thinking you can escape me.’
“I would give anything to know what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours,” Evan says, low enough that I recognize the deep timber of his voice.
It’s not like I can tell him the truth. As if I could explain I have a psychopath’s voice that talks to me around the clock and keeps me in my ‘place.’ We get reintroduced every night when I close my eyes and fall asleep.
“I honestly couldn’t tell you, you would lose your mind trying to understand mine,” I reply.
“What makes you say that?”
His hand comes around my waist to maneuver us out of the way of a group of people walking the other direction.
“I’m an artist, it comes with the territory. I think it’s mandatory to have a little madness inside you if you create for a living,” I explain and immediately want to take those words back because I sound like a complete idiot and I know it.
“I like that, you should be warned, the more you talk the more I’m intrigued by you.”
And he should be warned that I’m a complete waste of his time.
“I guess I will have to shut up then,” I tease him. “What about you?”
“There’s not much to know. As for what I’ve been thinking, it’s nice you don’t fill every moment with words. It makes me appreciate what you have to say.”
I study the angles of his face. I refuse to believe there’s not much about him. His mysterious nature and intense deep eyes suggest there’s an entire book somewhere written about him alone. Photos of him should be splashed all over fashion magazines and advertisements because I can’t imagine anyone not buying what he would be selling.
“You don’t give anything away, do you?” I ask.
“For you I would,” he says, but it’s playful.
I’m completely inept with this back and forth. I usually avoid conversations altogether. I’m not interesting. I’m not engaging and most people would pass me off with the judgment of me being a total bitch. I’ve never been able to be a bubbly, open, carefree sort of person. The type of woman who should be in my place, here with a seriously gorgeous Evan. I’m not intentionally this way. This closed off. I would change that about myself if I could.
“You’re absolutely perfect for me.”
We make it to the restaurant and fall with ease into the evening. We enjoy good food and even better company. Jamie is very charismatic and it’s easy to see how he has met so many friends in the short time we have lived here. I’m thankful I have him by my side, because he softens my rough edges. He speaks up for me when I should and covers over my awkwardness with his charm. I don’t think it’s a fair trade because Jamie is worth his weight in gold.