Octavia
I walk into the living room, which opens directly into the kitchen, forming one continuous space.
The sofa is a pale cream, draped with a thick throw in burgundy and gold, and three mismatched cushions rest along the back.
A coffee table sits before it, and the television faces the room from the opposite wall.
But my canvases have taken over entirely.
Along the walls, arranged in what I attempt to pass off as orderly stacks yet still managing to look utterly unruly, rest a mix of unfinished canvases, charcoal drafts, and pieces I’ve actually managed to complete.
I’ve even started painting straight onto the walls. Whoever ends up with this dorm after me will probably call it vandalism, claim I’ve ruined their space.
Then again, can art truly be called a ruin?
I grab the remote, flick on the TV, and scroll through the music channels until I settle on something.
I set the volume loud enough to melt the silence, though it’s really just to drown out the noise in my head.
I move into the kitchen and switch on the coffee machine, taking out bread, an avocado, smoked salmon, and eggs while it grumbles through its slow start up.
I set the eggs to boil and occupy myself with putting dishes back in place.
When I turn toward the coffee machine, the smell of smoke hits me.
My breath catches as I look back at the hob. The water is boiling over, slopping violently against the sides of the pot.
I rush forward to turn it off, but boiling water splashes over my palm as I grab for it. I hiss and jerk my hand back, knocking the handle as I do. More water spills, hits the flame, and flares.
I step back, manage to shut everything off, and lunge for the window, getting it open before the smoke alarm goes off.
I make my way back to my room, rummaging through the drawers until I find the burn cream. I smear it over my hand, already flushed an angry red.
I’ll live, but it still stings like hell.
Good.
You enjoy pain.
That same bloody voice taunts, and I push it aside. I’ve become rather good at doing that.
Back in the kitchen, I rescue the eggs, dump them into cold water, and peel them before anything else can go wrong. Then I put the toast together and turn back to the coffee.
For fuck’s sake.
What a morning.
I haven’t even had my coffee yet, and I’ve already burned myself and nearly set the dorm on fire.
I genuinely don’t understand how you manage to fuck up boiling eggs. It’s water and a stupid egg. What could possibly—
I stop short when I notice the machine is still running. The brew was set to double, overflowing a single cup and spilling over.
Whatever.
I pour the coffee into a larger mug, then sit at the island and eat in silence after all that chaos, my hand still aching as I drink.
Once I’m finished with breakfast and have put everything back in its place, I make my way to the living room.
I stand in the centre of the room, surveying the mess, until one canvas in particular draws my attention.
It’s propped against the far wall, tall, reaching my shoulder. The colours are dark and heavy—charcoal, icy blue, and a deep wine red.
A figure is starting to emerge, its back arched, chest dragged upward as though something unseen has hooked into it.
The eyes are closed. Everything else sinks into shadow, marked only by violent strokes and a smear of colour that could almost pass for blood.
I pick up the remote again and turn the volume up even more, then walk toward the canvas.
On the floor beside my palette sits a tray of paints. I squeeze out fresh colours and lift a brush between my fingers. For a brief moment, I simply hold it there, hovering, before dipping it into the pigment.
After that, it comes easily.
My hands move faster than my thoughts. Every stroke pulls me further into the piece.
Time loses meaning in the way it only does when I paint.
Minutes slip into hours. The music keeps changing in the background, but I barely register it. Everything else falls away until it’s just me, the canvas, and the colours in my hands.
By the time I step back, my breath is uneven, as if I’ve run a marathon, and my fingers are stained to the wrist.
The room has slipped into dusk, the sky outside turned a darkened blue, and I have to switch on the lamp to see the canvas properly.
The clock reads past eight.
I’ve painted straight through the day without realising.
As I take in the finished piece, the woman’s soul being torn from her body while the shadows drag her back, suspended between surrender and survival.
I already know I won’t sell it. It’s going straight into my private collection.
Pieces like this don’t leave my possession.
I rarely part with anything I paint, if I’m honest.
I might post the finished pieces on Instagram, and with the following I’ve accumulated, there is never a shortage of people trying to get their hands on whatever I create.
Collectors send enquiries within minutes, galleries email, call, and occasionally attempt to coax me into full exhibitions.
Even influential people try to secure my work by throwing absurd amounts of money at it.
I can’t bring myself to part with them—not these pieces.
I study the figure before me, my jaw tightening. I know precisely who the silhouette reminds me of, even if I refuse to speak the name aloud.
Maybe that’s the real reason I can’t sell them, the fact that, without meaning to, I pour far too much of myself into every stroke.
I put the brush down at last, exhaling as though I’ve slipped out of a trance. My shoulders ache, my fingers feel stiff, and the hem of my hoodie is freckled with dried paint.
After sessions like this, I always end up numb in a way I find almost comforting, though it never quite burns through the energy simmering beneath my skin, ready to split me open.
I tidy the space, putting caps back on tubes, brushes into the jar, the palette scraped clean for tomorrow. The room looks no less chaotic, but at least it feels like organised chaos now.
My hands are a disaster. Streaks of black, navy, and red cling to every crease.
I walk into the bathroom and turn on the tap. The water runs warm as I scrub my palms, the backs of my hands, between my fingers.
It is a slow process, the paint holds on in a way that makes it difficult to remove, and I never manage to get it fully off.
I dry my hands and step back into my bedroom just as my phone chimes, the sound slicing through the quiet.
I take it from the counter and swipe the screen open. A single message waits for me.
A single name.
New target. Location confirmed.
A slow, dark curve pulls at my mouth.
This is perfect. After all, I might finally get to bleed some of this pent up anger out of my system, before I reach the point of breaking.