2. Serena
TWO
SERENA
G etting lost in my paintings is something that comes easy to me. Knowing exactly where the next stroke of my brush is going, to create what I see in my head, is like breathing. That’s when I create a piece solely for me, my commissions, well that’s a whole other story.
Sighing, I run my paint stained fingers through my coarse dark hair, place the end of the brush in my mouth, and just sit staring at the painting, waiting for inspiration to hit. When nothing comes, I pull my phone out from my apron and call my best friend, knowing she can help spark an idea.
She answers on the third ring, “Ugh” I sigh loudly tossing my paintbrush across the room “I just can’t get it right”
Knowing exactly what I’m talking about she says, “chill babe, you’ll get it, you always do.”
Rocking back and forth, to calm myself, I take a deep breath and say, “you’re right, I know you’re right, but Jess I can’t get this to look how I’m picturing it in my head”
“Well how are you picturing it?”
“Not like this!” I point at the canvas knowing she can’t see it. “It’s the colors, Jess. They’re not right. They’re not coming together how I need them to. It’s all wrong,” I let out a huff of frustration.
“First, uncross your arms; you’re not a child.”
I uncross my arms, glaring at my phone and silently cursing her for knowing me so damn well.
“Okay, now step away from the painting and try looking at it in a different perspective.”
I step back, trying and failing to look at it differently. “It isn’t working.”
She sighs, “Babe, give it some time.” She is silent on the other end letting me stew and stare at the painting, then says. “I think it is time for some hyping up”
I can hear her smile through the phone as she yells, “Who are you?”
I’m silent, in no mood for hype time. Anytime one of us is having a bad day, frustrated, or just done with life, the other hypes you up. A way to encourage and remind you it’s not the end of the world. Today it is my turn to be hyped. I groan, stubbornly refusing to join in. I just want these fucking colors to do, what I want them to do.
Jessica blows out a breath and says even louder, “WHO ARE YOU?”
I laugh a little, finally giving in, and say, “Serena Raven!”
“I can’t hear you!”
Closing my eyes, cupping my hands around my mouth, I yell. “Serena fucking Raven!”
She yells back, “And who is Serena fucking Raven?”
Doing a little dance, I holler back, “A badass bitch who can paint the hell out of everything!”
“That’s right! And what is she going to do?”
Pointing at my canvas, I say, “Figure this shit out and create a masterpiece.”
“Fuck, yeah!” Jessica says, with more vigor.
“Fuck, yeah!” We both start laughing, “Thanks, Jess, I really needed that.”
“Of course, babe, that’s what I’m here for; I’ll always be here.”
“I know, and I love you for that, but…”
“But you figured that shit out and are going to resume your painting.” She says it as more of a statement than as a question.
I give a little smirk, “Exactly.”
“I love you, babe; send me a picture when you’re done, and call me if the colors start being assholes again.”
“You know I will, I love you, too.”
“Laters.”
“Laters.” I hang up and go pick up the brush I threw across the room. Sitting back on my stool, and resuming the music to center myself. “Don’t You Want Me Baby” comes on, and I lose myself in my work.
Painting has been the one constant in my life for as long as I can remember. Everyone has left me in one way or another, aside from Jessica; I know she will always be there. But painting, painting is my everything. It is how I pay my bills,- It’s my hobby, and my way to decompress. I usually know exactly what I am going to paint the moment the brush is in my hands, but sometimes, only with my commissions, I feel lost. I don’t connect with the piece in the way I need to. This piece especially, at least, not until Jess hyped me up, and now I know exactly what I want to do with it.
My phone dings, alerting me of a new article on ‘The Morbid Monet.’ I have my phone settings set to a certain ringtone when he strikes again. That little ding lets me know a newspaper will be coming out tomorrow for me to add to my collection.
This will make thirty two. I can’t believe they still haven’t caught him.
Ever since he started his killings, even before he was named Salem's notorious serial killer, I always felt drawn to him. The way he lays his victims to rest, how he poses them always outside, there is just something beautiful about it. He never touches them, the article says, just tortures them and removes their clothing, painting on a new set of clothes.
Most would be terrified, especially since all of his victims are thicker women. I should be scared to even leave the house, but I’m not. He fascinates me, and if I were to come face to face with him one day, I don’t think I’d run.
I’m so lost in my painting I don’t hear the doorbell ring. It’s not until I hear the banging, that I’m finally pulled from my trance.
Who the hell is at my door? I know I’m not expecting anyone today. I didn’t forget I was expecting a visitor… Did I? It dawns on me as I near the front door. “Fuck…” I look out the window, and, sure as shit, my dad is standing right there with a scowl on his face.
He is dressed to the nines in a black suit and shoes. His hair gelled back. Thomas Raven would never allow a hair to be out of place or anything, but freshly clean shaven. My stomach drops as I watch him look down impatiently at his watch.
I do not want to have to deal with him today. I completely forgot we made dinner plans with everything else I have going on.
I answer the door, and he looks me up and down with annoyance. “I see you forgot we had plans.”
I stand up straighter, looking him in the eyes, the paint pallet still in my hands. “Nice to see you, too, Dad. How long has it been? Oh, that's right, five years. But, no, I didn't forget, I was busy working and lost track of time.” I spit through clenched teeth, knowing damn well I did forget.
“Working,” he scoffs. “Last I checked, painting is a hobby, not a real job.”
I try to hold in my anger, but I am seething. “Well, Thomas.”
My father’s eyes shoot up at me using his first name.
“Not everyone has a practical, real job, as you put it. My paintings pay for this house,” I wave my hands around at the house. “Pay for the clothes on my back, the food in my stomach.” I take a deep breath, trying to gather myself. “And I love my job; it makes me happy, and if you ever cared to support my dreams, or care to even take a look at one of my paintings, you would see I’m damn good at what I do and that I deserve every cent to my name.”
My father just grunts and pushes past me, completely ignoring what I just said. “Go clean that paint off your face, and if you’re done with your little tantrum, we can go have a nice dinner.”
I turn my back on him and start to walk away.
“I said nice, Serena, so definitely nothing like what you’re wearing now.” he says with disgust.
I turn around, flipping him the bird, and the anger in his face gives me the satisfaction I was looking for. Walking to my room, I close the door and get ready.
It's been five years since I last saw my father. We have only communicated through email and even that’s been sparse at best. He messages me once a week, mainly criticizing my life choices, and sending me job listings that would be more appropriate for a woman with my background. I barely reply, I know I’ll never be able to change his mind.
A couple weeks ago, my father told me he would be visiting Salem the first week of September, and would like to see me and have dinner. I replied it only took him five years, but sure I could make that work.
His only response was, he would pick me up at six o’clock.
I appear twenty minutes later with a “nice” baby blue dress on, my hair styled in a tight bun, and fresh face of makeup.
My father looks me up and down and gives me an approving smile. “See, now was that so hard? You look nice; now,” he reaches his hand to mine. “Let’s go.”
I brush past him, ignoring his hand, and walk to his car. It is a black Lamborghini Gallardo; a visual representation of his soul to the world. I get in, looking at the interior and sitting in the leather seat. The steering wheel looks like it belongs in a race car, and the radio screen is as big as my laptop. This is one way to show off you have money and flaunt it in everyone's face . My dad is notorious for showcasing his wealth, only satisfied when he can feel others' jealousy.
Sitting with my arms crossed and slouched in the passenger seat, I wait impatiently. Getting in, he takes a loud, deep breath. Raking his fingers through his black hair in the same way I do, he looks over at me. Clenching my jaw, my fingers go white against my arms. I hate that I take after him in any way, especially his mannerisms. I don’t want to be my fathers daughter.
“Look, Serena, I didn’t come here to argue with you or look down on your life choices; I simply want to have a nice meal with my daughter and catch up.”
Scoffing, I look out the window. “Sure, Dad, if that wasn’t what you wanted to do,” I look back into his steely blue eyes, “Then why do you have to berate my life choices every fucking chance you get?”
His eyes harden, “Watch your mouth; I raised you better than that”
I scoff, “You raised me? That’s rich, coming from you! Mom raised me. You spent your life at the office bending your secretary over your desk every chance you got.”
“How dare you; I loved your mother!”
Disgusted with his lies, I laugh. “Is that why you fucked every whore who opened their legs, while she laid in bed dying?” I’m so angry tears trickle down my face. “Is that why it took you five fucking years after she died to reach out to me and have this fucking dinner?”
He lowers his head, looking at me with sad eyes. “Serena, I…” He’s at a loss for words. “I’m sorry, okay? I did love your mother, but she was already gone.”
I’m appalled at the words that left his mouth, cutting him off and yelling, “She was already dead? No dad, she was still alive, fighting for life. Fighting for you.” I reach for the door handle and look back. “She did until her last dying breath, but you were too busy between another whore’s legs, to even care.” I get out of the car and slam the door shut.
He speeds out of my driveway, and I’m left standing there, crying over the man, who once again failed me.
I walk towards the house and call Jess, who answers after the first ring. Hearing my cries, all she says is, “I’m on my way.” Hanging up, I fall to the ground and let the grief of losing my father for good take over me.