Chapter 22 Sophia
Sophia
Iscraped at a stubborn spot inside the oven.
Whatever it was had been baked countless times and was as solid as a rock.
I gave up and slammed the oven door shut.
It was only noon, but I was exhausted, and Henry's house never looked better.
I jumped and let out a little yelp when I turned around and saw Henry standing in the doorway, grinning his yellow-toothed grin at me.
“Sophia,” he drawled out my name like it was some kind of sweet dessert rather than a simple greeting. I narrowed my eyes at him, feigning a smile that couldn’t quite reach my eyes.
“Just finishing up some cleaning, Henry.”
He made his way into the room, plopping down on one of the chairs around the table.
“You don’t have to do all that, you know,” he said, his voice almost sounding sincere. Almost.
“I don’t mind,” I told him with as much honesty as I could muster. I could see him smiling out of the corner of my eye. He knew as well as I did that I had no choice but to do it.
Henry grunted in acknowledgment but said nothing more. His gaze had settled somewhere around my waist, and I tugged my shirt down self-consciously. His leering was becoming more frequent and obvious. I could feel the weight of his stare, slimy and intrusive, crawling over my body.
"Alright," he breathed out finally, his voice a low grunt. "I'll just be in my office if you need anything."
I needed a shower. A boiling hot, cleansing shower that could wash away this grimy feeling. There was still so much to do, too much to do, but it would have to wait. I left all the cleaning supplies as they were and made my way up to my room.
Behind my closed door, I slid down onto the floor, my back pressed against the worn-out wooden surface. I wrapped my arms around my knees, pulling them to my chest, and stared at the far wall blankly where the easel held my finished painting of Gabriel.
His eyes looked back at me from the painting, their softness perfectly matching his that morning when he looked at me, betraying his chiseled features.
I could still remember that day as if it were yesterday.
It had been such a simple moment, yet it held such significance for me now.
I walked over to the painting and felt the edge, it was dry now, ready to hang up.
I had chosen a canvas the same size as the painting on my wall, which held a simple nighttime scenery of a city I had painted when I first moved into the loft.
I grabbed the old painting hanging on the wall, and lifted, but it didn’t budge.
I tugged at it harder, yet it remained perfectly in place, somehow bound to the wall.
I could have sworn the day I hung it up all those years ago that I had just balanced it on a random nail.
"Stupid thing," I muttered, tugging at it once more. But it remained as stubborn as ever, firmly anchored in its place. In that moment, I felt a strange kind of solidarity with the painting. Just like me, it was stuck.
Feet pounded up the stairs to my room, followed by a sharp knock. Henry's voice poured into the room through the thin door. “Sophia?” His voice rose in pitch as he nearly shouted.
“Henry? Is everything okay?” Silence.
“I..I was just wondering what you're up to,” he said nervously. For once, I was actually glad he was there. Well, not glad exactly, not even close actually, but I could use his help getting the painting down.
“You can come in."
The door slowly opened, revealing his discomforted face. “Are you alright? You look-”
“Oh yeah, yeah, I'm fine,” he said with wide eyes, then wiped his hands on his pants as he looked around the room. "Will you help me tear this old thing off the wall?” I pointed to the painting.
Henry's eyebrows shot up in surprise as he took a step forward. "That old thing? But it's been there for years," he said, chuckling uncomfortably. His eyes darted from the painting, to me, then back to the painting.
"I know, but I want to see how this one would look in its place.
" I shifted my weight and gestured towards the portrait of Gabriel.
Henry followed my gaze, his eyebrows knitting together as he studied the artwork.
A shrug was his only response before he turned back towards the stubborn painting on the wall.
"Alright," Henry grunted, rolling up his sleeves as he moved closer to the painting. "Let's see what I can do." He began his weak assault on the piece of art. Gripping each side, he yanked, tugged, and gave up no sooner than he began, but beads of sweat began to glisten on his head.
“Well, that thing really wants to stay up there,” he chuckled. “Why don't you put your new one just over here above your desk?”
“I’ll just leave it where it is for now. I'm going to get that painting down one way or another.”
"Sure, sure," he muttered, wiping sweat away from his forehead.
“Are you alright?” I asked. The effort he expended was nowhere near enough for him to work up a sweat. He swallowed hard and licked his lips.
"Yeah, yeah. Just not feeling too well, I guess. Do you think tomorrow morning you could run to the store and get me something?" he replied, his voice shaky as he wiped his forehead again.
“Oh, I don’t know henry, I shouldn't go out.”
His eye twitched as he licked his lips.
“I don’t know exactly why you cant, but hey that’s not my business, it’s just I think I would have a panic attack if I go out tomorrow. Please Sophia, would you just take my car and run to the store for me? It will be fine.”
“Ok, Yeah sure.” I said under the pressure of his intensity.
“Good, good.” He nodded, seeming to calm down.
“Once I feel better tomorrow evening we can get this thing off the wall ok?”
"Alright, well..." I hesitated, glancing at him warily before shifting my gaze back to the painting resting on my easel. "Thanks for trying to help out with that."
Henry only nodded in response, and then, without another word, he turned and hurried out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. I was left alone once more beneath the stubborn painting still nailed to the wall. I sighed and decided to take a shower.
I hesitated for a moment, staring at that unmovable canvas, then lifted off my shirt.
I dropped it to the floor before I moved onto my jeans.
I could feel the rough denim under my fingers as I worked them down over my hips and let them fall in a crumpled heap around my ankles.
My bra followed suit, the underwire digging into my skin a final time.
In nothing but my panties, I gave the damn painting a final few wild tugs but was met with the same firm resistance.
"Fine," I said aloud, "stay there then. It's not like I'm going anywhere either. "