22. Nico
22
NICO
CRIMSON RED PAINT
S omething is wrong with Marie, but I have no clue what, or why.
She fled after what happened between us, her eyes downcast and sad, as though what we shared didn’t shatter her like it did me. Her reaction surprised me, but I’m so overwhelmed I can’t focus on her right now. I can’t give her what she needs because I’m in no position to guess and I don’t think she will tell me.
I need to take care of my needs so I can take care of hers. Painting has always been my solace and that’s all I can think of. I wish I could paint and kill, not necessarily in that order, but Dobrev hasn’t brought me my next toy yet. The blank canvas will have to do.
That kiss flipped my world. I went from not wanting anyone to touch me to being a needy mess on the brink of asking to burrow under Marie’s skin. The way she took command of my body was a thrill as high as the lick of a whip on my limbs. It could rival the perfect control of holding someone’s life in my hands. I’ll lay it all down for her.
My phone rings in my jeans pocket as I make my way to my workshop in the dark. There’s still a few hours left before sunrise, the forest pitched black. But I know the way as if I carved it myself.
I pick up without a greeting and my brother’s voice echoes on the other end of the line. “I’m bringing you a treat, fratellino ,” he says with glee and a menacing tone I know is meant for his guest.
“I’m already at the workshop.”
I hang up without ceremony and pull the door of the barn open. The hinges are silent, white on white greeting me when I light up the room.
I’m faster than usual, discarding my clothes and fitting them neatly into the cupboard before I put on my painter’s suit. I might spend more time in it than usual today so I keep my t-shirt on underneath. It also smells like her from when she pressed herself against me, the memory of her breasts and sweet curves making me groan. The plastic on top of the soft fabric creates a new sound I’m unfamiliar with and I wince, but removing the tee isn’t an option. I need it for the next part of my night. I need her close when I lay the paint on the canvas and recreate what we shared.
After a few minutes, Andrea drags an unconscious man of medium build to the centre of the room. We fasten him on the hooks to hold him upright but he doesn’t rouse. “Do I need to know?” I ask my brother.
“His wife cried on Giulia’s shoulder about how he beats their son when she’s at work, then her when she gets home.”
I grind my teeth. Another man preying on those weaker than himself. I’ll show him what it’s like to be prey. I nod to Andrea who leaves shortly after, unaffected by how I look, and ready to get back to his wife rather than spend his night drenched in blood. He’ll indulge from time to time, but I guess tonight is not the night.
I preemptively put duct tape on my victim’s mouth and turn to my canvas and my sets of black and white, creating an array of greys on my pallet to paint the moment that changed my life.
I get lost in flow, creating the perfect abstract representation of what Marie means to me, of what her kiss changed for me, of how much I want her. One canvas turns into two.
At some point, the man suspended to the ceiling of the workshop shuffles, his muffled cries irritating me. I stand up and take a mallet, swiping it across his cheek violently. The blow reverberates into my arm and sends my heart into a frenzy, blood pouring from his nose onto the concrete floor. What if I added it to my masterpiece?
Carefully, I swipe the crimson liquid from the floor with a new brush and bring it to my canvas, highlighting the top corner of the piece. It brightens the painting immediately and reminds me of when Marie bit me so hard I bled for her. I touch my lip and shudder, opening up the small wound again. My cock strains against my boxer briefs but I ignore it. I keep on painting.
And on, and on.
Until a shy sun ray floats through the small window on top of my workspace. My eyes sting from the focus, my mouth dry with lack of hydration. Movement in my periphery brings my mind back to the present moment. I admire the pieces I created and smile. They’ll need to dry, then I can hide them, to be coveted in the dark when I need a reminder that this is real.
Now, I need to tend to my client, but the usual excitement is replaced with an emotion I don’t have a name for. It’s a sense that I’m not where I’m supposed to. I’m meant to inhale sweet lavender scent, not lemon-scented bleach and copper from blood that isn’t mine.
I sigh. “It’s your lucky day,” I tell the man in front of me. His eyes shine with hope and I snuff it out when I take a single pill from my shelves. He whimpers in fear and that strokes the pride in me.
I keep it for very rare cases, but I don’t have the will to wait for him to bleed out. I certainly don’t want to touch him long enough to strangle him, even though my hands are covered with gloves. I need him to die fast so I can burn his corpse and grind his bones to dust. That already will take long enough, and the itch under my skin isn’t coming from the need to kill right now. No, it’s the need to touch my sweet, dominant and shy Marie. And Ember.
I miss my baby, I realise.
What a novel thing to feel.
I’m smiling, a pep to my steps, as I advance on the man and shove the pill in his throat, closing his airways so he has no choice but to swallow. The cyanide works in minutes and he convulses before giving his last breath.
While his body burns, I take another canvas and paint him as well, though it’s only 12 by 18 inches. He wasn’t memorable enough to deserve a bigger format. The sun is fully up when the grinder works its magic and I take the quickest shower, walking back to my house naked.