30. Natalia
NATALIA
The echo of my father’s words won’t stop playing in my ears. Since the call with my family, I’ve splattered my heart across the art studio.
In harsh, unforgiving black. For the darkness clouding my mind. For the fact that there’s no return.
In blood red. For betrayal. For everything I thought was true but was actually a lie.
In deepest midnight blue. For salvation. For the one piece of hope that I’m clinging onto like a life raft.
The canvas I’m working on at the moment is a darkened still life of rose petals floating in a basin of water. I’m in a rhythm with the paints that takes me far away from the thoughts that threaten to tear me open.
This is a picture of drowned innocence.
A fall from grace.
You might think that falling into the ocean was the worst thing that could happen to the rose — but actually it was growing in the walled garden, a beautiful trap, that it was most unhappy. Because it was all built on a lie.
I reach for a new tube of oil paint, but my hand misses. Heavy, unwanted doubt about things that I’ve never second-guessed before has me feeling clumsy.
A strange light-headedness is creeping in, too, making me wonder how long I can keep doing this. I want to erase these feelings, to pour them out onto canvas, but a headache pounds behind my eyes and my vision is blurring.
A strong, steady arm catches me the second that I stumble. I didn’t even know Leks was here until his hand lightly closes around my waist.
“Do you think that’s enough?” He keeps his voice light but I can feel the undercurrent of concern. He’s never seen me like this. I’ve never felt like this.
I shake my head, pushing away from him. He’s too distracting. I need to work. Because if I stop, I’m not going to be able to keep these feelings at bay.
He lets me go but I can feel the disapproval radiating off his frame.
“Natalia, you’ve been here so long you can barely stand upright.” There’s a softness in his voice that brings tears to my eyes. I know it will only get worse if I look at him and tell him everything. The warm, intoxicating feeling of his part of the problem.
I go back to the canvas and think about what it needs. Suddenly it seems all wrong. Roses, what a terrible idea. The thorns lining their stems are much more interesting. Sharp, tearing, painful. That’s what I need to focus on.
“At least drink some water.” I wouldn’t say Leks is begging, but the concern in his voice is growing urgent. There’s a rough edge to it like he’s considering forcibly dragging me out of here.
I’m not done.
I take the brush with the black paint and paint out the canvas from the center with messy strokes of paint, before shoving it to the floor. The painting is not ready. None of them have been right yet.
He gives a frustrated sigh, stacking the canvas with the other discarded works.
“Now you’ll have to start again tomorrow. That one was quite good.”
“Don’t lie,” I snap at him. It was terrible. Anyone with eyes could see that.
I take another blank canvas from the shelves and place it on the easel. Then I take new roses from the vase, twisting the flowers away from the thorny stems and bending them into a twisted knot. My hand bleeds from the thorns, but I feel nothing.
I know the second he sees the blood because a warm and calloused grip circles my wrist.
“Natalia. You won’t be able to paint if you destroy your hands.” Now his voice is pleading.
I look at his inked grip around my wrist for a second before I drop the stems, content with crushing the red rose buds in my other hand until my nails have ripped every petal to shreds.
He bought me the bouquet before our dinner with Vera. He knows I think the loft needs more color, more freshness. That feels so long ago. Guilt was eating at me for what I’d done, but at least my family loyalty hadn’t mocked me like a funhouse mirror reflection, warped and comical.
Now, it all seems so pointless. I helped my father, and for what?
So he could shift me into another position where I’d have more value to him, like one of his precious artworks, a sculpture that he can pose however he chooses.
I hurt Leks, on behalf of someone who didn’t even care about me.
Who wouldn’t even listen to a word out of my mouth or trust me enough to give me a decent explanation about what he did to my brothers.
That reality hits me and I feel as if someone’s poured a bag of concrete down my throat.
I sink to the floor, staring at the pile of messed-up canvases. I’ve been here, in the art studio, since the conversation with my father. Haven’t told Leks what happened, feeling too conflicted. Haven’t slept, for fear of what my dreams will hold.
Shame and anger and confusion compete for the attention of my exhausted mind, leaving everything in an endless loop.
My father hates me. My mother is disappointed, at least. The worst of all is the feeling of worthlessness.
I thought I could rely on their love, no matter what I did…
but now I wonder if I was only useful for them for one reason.
After all, my father’s hatred for Leks couldn’t be more clear and yet he was happy to send me into his arms to protect himself.
Leks drops to the floor beside me.
He pulls my head onto his lap and pulls out my hair tie, letting out my messy bun and stroking my hair soothingly.
I consider pulling away and trying to stand again, but the tense determination slowly fades from my body as I look up at him.
I’m sure his harsh jawline, scars and too-intense eyes are terrifying for his enemies.
To me, they’re becoming an irreplaceable source of comfort.
Especially the secret tenderness that flashes in his eyes right now, his hands as gentle as if he was handling something truly precious.
My body grows heavy with exhaustion as he rakes his fingers through my hair, his lips twisting down in seriousness.
“You need to sleep, zolotse,” he tells me and I don’t disagree. My eyes flutter shut as I rest on his warm, solid thighs.
“How long have you been here?” I murmur.
“The whole time.”
Hot tears spring into my eyes. I didn’t ask for Leks to be here, at my side. I haven’t said a word to him the whole time, let alone touched him. I drag my eyelids up to look at him.
“Why?” I whisper up at him, bringing my hand up to trace along his jaw.
His jaw muscles tense as he looks down at me. “Because you’re not telling me what’s wrong.”
It comes back now. How Leks came into the living room to find me sobbing on the couch. I couldn’t tell him what happened. I didn’t want to have to face the fact that he’s known who my father was for ten years. He probably thought I was stupid for not seeing it, the way that I was being used.
“My father hates me.”
I hear a rush of air as he sucks in a breath of understanding. “You told him about us.”
I nod my head, the tears streaming down the sides of my face. Leks wipes each one away with his thumb, then gives up when the stream becomes a torrent of sobs. He cradles me against his chest and lets me cry.
Finally, with shaking breaths, I collect myself enough to tell him what my father said.
You know nothing, whore.
It wasn’t a denial. And the insult only further confirmed to me that every word Leks had said about my brothers was true… Papa is not the man I thought he was.
Leks tenses as the words land in the room with a harsh echo. His arms tighten around me and his midnight-blue eyes harden to black slate. His gaze slides somewhere far away and intentional.
There was never any love lost between him and my father, but why do I just feel like I signed his death warrant?
I’m glad I left out the part where my father said I’d be ruined for their remarriage plans…
Whoever that prospective fiancé is, speaking his name in this room would have brought him in for a dark fate at the hands of Leks and his men.
A flicker of regret passes through me as I assess the stony set of Leks's jaw. He’s angry. I’m angry, too, but I have no power to do anything about it.
I gulp back another sob and wipe my eyes with my palms, forcing my lips up into a weak smile. It’s the best I can do.
“He probably didn’t mean it.”
Leks frowns and arches one eyebrow at me, looking around at the ruined canvases in the art studio, making it clear he doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. You don’t fall into a pit of despair over words that didn’t mean anything.
“I’m over-reacting,” I explain, only to be met with another skeptical look, his intense gaze narrowing on my face. “I shouldn’t care what he thinks. Not after what he did.”
“But you do.”
The smile drops away. I can’t deny it. I nod, feeling stupid. Like a child who can’t believe that Santa is not real.
Leks lets out a long breath, his throat bobbing. “I shouldn’t have told you what he did to your brothers.”
How can he think that? I frown. “You’re the first person who was brave enough to tell me the truth.”
He catches my hand on his cheek. “Only because it was convenient to me.”
“I asked you to.”
“Only because I let you know it was an option. It was selfish. If I hadn’t told you, you’d still be happy.”
I shake my head. “That doesn’t count. Being happy when you’re really being lied to. That’s not real happiness.”
Leks pauses to wipe another track of tears from my cheek. “You’re beautiful when you cry, zolotse. Still, I hate seeing you like this.”
His breathing deepens and we sit in silence in the art studio, just the comforting feeling of his solid body wrapped protectively over mine. I’m only faintly aware of a rocking motion as Leks takes me upstairs and tucks me into bed.