43. Chapter 41
Darcy
I pause, graphite held just off my sketchpad, to observe the light flowing in through the window and coating Emmy as she kneels on the floor in my studio. It passes from one side to the other, angled down, almost like heaven has opened up and shone down on her.
With her head tipped down and her hair in a braid falling down over her shoulder toward the ground, I have an unobstructed view of my rope as it hugs her body, highlighting curves and lines.
She has had the same Neko Harness for the entire session, however in this pose, the third pose, I added in additional supporting ropes to the back and converted it to a suspension harness.
In her kneeling form, she is leaning forward, the tail of the ropes stretching up to the wooden ceiling beam above her, supporting her weight from between her shoulder blades.
The first two positions, standing by the window and then lying flat with a pillow behind her upper back to create a curved body shape, didn’t do much for her disposition.
Still mad. Still standoffish. Still quiet.
She remained lucid but bored, holding her body the way I requested but never giving herself over to the ropes.
Hudson thinks she is starting to thaw, starting to remember what it’s like to want us again, all because he saw the bear he gave to her tucked into her backpack. But here, now, with me? There is a solid plate of glass between us, and she is the only one with the ability to smash it into pieces.
It wasn’t until this partial-suspension tie and floor pose that she gave herself over to the ropes. The descent wasn’t quick. It took almost ten minutes for the tension to leave her body and for the ropes to be the only thing keeping her from the ground.
Because of her braced wrist, I had her simply holding her elbows behind her back, to give the illusion of a full-body tie. Then her arms slowly slipped until they were hanging loosely, knuckles almost touching the floor.
My poor princess. Fighting the ropes and the quiet oblivion they bring her. As soon as she is out of the cast, I’ll have her bound and suspended for every session. Not only for my art, but for her peace of mind.
But right now, my chest aches. My heart, really.
All I want to do is wrap her up in my arms and show her that she isn’t as alone as she believes she is.
That we are here, waiting, ready to catch her when she falls.
We can tell her until we are blue in the face, but until she is ready to forgive us and hear our message, all we can do is watch from the sidelines as she fights herself.
Sighing, I go back to my work, needing a few more minutes to get the sketch where I need it to be for future reference material.
These next few sessions will be all about defining her form, learning how it curves on my paper, figuring out which lines will accurately depict the curve of her skin around the rope.
Eventually, we’ll move into complete poses, with wardrobe and props, but for now, I need this time to learn her lines.
When the creative calm doesn’t settle around me like it usually does, I know I’m done for the day. Setting aside my things, I stand and stretch, working out the knots and pinches that have formed after sitting for so long.
As much as we might like to think that our time in the gym is keeping us in shape, there is no denying that forty is around the corner for all four of us.
Lately, I have been getting out of bed already sore, and the day hasn’t even started yet.
However, I’m putting those aches down to the fact that I reach for Emmy in my sleep and she isn’t there.
Quietly, so I don’t accidentally shock her out of her floaty state, I make my way toward her, sitting on the floor facing her. With a gentle touch, I start at the crown of her head and trail my fingers down her head and her neck, the strands of her hair shifting beneath my fingertips.
The curve of her neck to the rounded ball of her shoulder, flowing down her bicep, elbow, forearm, then wrist. I encircle it, finding her pulse, feel the gentle flutter of her heartbeat, and take a breath.
As much as I want to sit here with her, stealing every minute I can, I know she wouldn’t want that. My girl is loyal and will hold up her end of our contract, but she would want to be released from our session as soon as it is over.
Trailing my fingers back up her arm, I lean in close and whisper into her ear. “Emmy, this position is over. I’m going to release the anchor and slowly lower you to the ground.”
With practiced movements, I stand and work the anchor until it releases, using the beam as a leverage point, feeding the rope until her body is flat to the floor. She doesn’t use her arms to support herself or break her fall, her body simply pooling like soft fabric.
I get to work untying the suspension rope, swap it out for a pillow that I place under her cheek, and then rearrange her limbs, so she is more comfortable.
From there, I begin undoing her harness.
By the time I’m ready to turn her over, her fingers have started to move against the grains of the wooden floor.
Carefully, I turn her over, pulling the ropes from underneath her and adjusting the pillow, and continue with the untying. When I’m down to the last pass of the rope around her body, I sit beside her, scoop an arm under her, and pull her up to sitting.
The air in my chest freezes as her arms come around me, and she presses her cheek into my shoulder, a quiet murmur humming in the space between us.
I close my eyes and press my face into her hair, inhaling the scent of her, and for this one single moment, I wrap her up in my arms, holding her to me.
The bruise that has been growing over my soul for the last week and a half softens, the harsh edges fading, and if I was more poetic than artistic, I’d say something about our heartbeats syncing in rhythm.
Besides these sketch sessions and my obsessive need to redraw them over and over, I have not touched another piece of work. My apartment is currently covered in sketches of her and not just from these sessions.
Memories. Future plans. I’ve drawn her face one hundred times in an attempt to perfect it.
I haven’t picked up a paintbrush, or oils, or even played with my sculpting. Whether that is because it is her preferred medium or because that is the first way I ever put her into one of my pieces, I’ll never know.
With a painful swallow, I straighten and get back to work, feeling the length of the rope slipping between us as I pull her completely free. I rearrange my grip to lower her back down to the pillow, but her arms tighten around me, paired with a small sound of distress.
Furrowing my brow, I contemplate my options.
Stay with her in my arms, safe and comforted until she has fully returned to herself and able to make her own decisions, or lower her to the ground, stay close, but give her the space she’s adamant that she wants?