Chapter Twenty Four
Monday morning arrives whether I’m ready for it or not.
I spent all of yesterday in my room with the curtains half-drawn, letting the light move across the walls without ever fully touching me.
I survived on a protein bar and energy drink I found in my gym bag, my pee signaling that I’m painfully dehydrated.
Not even that was sign enough to actually take care of myself.
When Laura is found, when I know what’s happened to her, when she’s safe, I might be able to start forgiving myself. But not yet.
At some point mid-afternoon, I gave into my loneliness, powered on my computer and loaded up Runeborn.
The familiar loading screen glowed against the dimness of my room, the soundtrack filling the silence while I sat there with my hoodie pulled over my knees.
I thought I could trigger Thiago into speaking to me under the guise of playing, but his username did not blink green.
At no point did I decide to actually text him.
I wouldn’t know what to say, and if he wants to respond to any of my humiliating voice notes, he knows where to find me.
By evening, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling and replaying everything on a loop.
Laura’s laugh. Everest’s look of relief at my door.
The string of voice notes I sent Thiago.
The strange absence of music from the next room along.
Morning came without giving me the reprieve of sleep, and I can’t afford to spend another day like that.
So I drag myself out of bed before the excuses start streaming in.
My limbs feel heavy as I move through the motions of showering, brushing my hair and sorting out my face with some light make-up to cover up the dark circles.
I pull on black leggings and an oversized Hollowbrook lacrosse hoodie, swamping myself in team spirit that is completely one sided.
No one on my so-called team even wants me here.
The air outside carries an early autumn breeze towards the courtyard.
Students dot the pathways in clusters, their voices lower than usual and conversations clipped.
I try to keep my head ducked to make it to the art block unscathed, but as usual, luck isn’t on my side.
A pair of studded platform boots step into my way, a wall of tattoos and loudly chewed gum blocking my path.
At her back, a gang of women dressed in black sneer at me.
“Why don’t you just tell them where Laura is?”
I reel back as if I’ve been slapped. “I don’t know where she is,” I narrow my eyes. Is that what people think? I’m just sitting on this knowledge out of what, spite?
“You know where he would have taken her,” another pipes up. “She’s suffering. Just tell the police already.”
“It should have been you,” the original girl scorns, striding into me shoulder-first. I stagger aside, rubbing my chest and exhaling a shuddery breath. I will not cry in public, nor will I run back to my room. There’s nothing there for me but isolated misery.
My spine straightens automatically, and as I enter the art block, I don’t bother looking around.
If I make eye contact with one more curled lip, I might just shatter.
Pushing through the heavy studio door, I make my way to the back, claiming my stool out of sight and mind.
The chemical smell of paint seeps into me, tickling my nose.
Another reminder that I’m not where I belong.
Around the studio, half-started canvases rest on easels.
That is, until I glance at mine. The rectangle of white stares back at me, wondering if we’re going to actually make some sort of progress today.
I doubt it, knowing my focus will be shot but perhaps the distraction is so sorely needed, I’ll give it a go.
Before me, the studio slowly fills, voices layering over one another in guarded murmurs.
If anyone shares the opinion of Goth Girl, they don’t openly share it.
Backpacks drop to the floor, stools scrape.
Liz allows an extra five minutes for the stragglers to drag their feet through the door, one of them being Reid. And I thought I looked like shit.
His carefully curated image of ink-stained fingers, artfully messy hair and a gloomy edge is riper than usual.
There are dark smudges beneath his gray eyes, his jaw shadowed with stubble like he couldn’t be bothered to pick up a razor this morning.
Even his clothes seem off, a black tee creased and thrown on without thought, stains clinging to the fabric as if he slept in a paint palette.
He doesn’t scan the room with his usual lazy arrogance either, simply taking his seat and slumping over his bag. I watch the muscles in his back flex as he breathes, far too labored to have only come from our apartment block.
Clasping her hands together with a jingle of silver bangles, Liz commands our attention. Her graying curls are piled high today, a pencil skewered through the bun. She scans the room with bright, perceptive eyes that miss absolutely nothing.
“Good morning, creatives. I hope you all managed to get some rest yesterday. Today we’re doing something mildly terrifying,” she announces, perching on the edge of her desk.
A ripple of uneasy laughter moves through the class.
It occurs to me then that there’s a reason I didn’t feel the same distaste rippling through the students in this room.
Except for Reid and I, none of them attended Everest’s party.
They’re art freaks, not bull-headed jocks.
They either don’t know of my connection to Laura, or simply don’t care for the drama.
I relax just a fraction, until Liz continues talking.
“Given that we’re focusing on self-expression this semester, and we’re our own worst critics at the best of times, I’ve decided you’re going to come to the front one by one and explain the concept behind your current piece.
Not the technique. Not the aesthetic. The why.
” She taps her chest lightly. “Art without intention is decoration. I want intention, and as artists, you need to learn to take feedback and implement it into your work.”
My stomach drops to my feet. Today we’re baring our souls in front of an audience. Today of all days?! I can barely hold myself together long enough to sit upright, and now I’m supposed to articulate some profound inner truth? The universe has a dark sense of humor, and I’m not here for it.
Without putting up the fight that I plan on giving, students shuffle to the front one by one.
A girl with pastel pink hair goes first, her hands trembling as she gestures toward a canvas splashed in frenzied neon strokes.
“My piece is supposed to represent anxiety,” she says quietly.
“Basically, whenever I feel nervous, I come and throw bright colors at it until I feel better.” I look over the painting again, the explosion of color that hurts to look at for too long.
It’s bold and impossible to ignore. I’m not much of an art snob, but yeah, I get it.
Next is a guy who I recognize as a big chess prodigy that created some excitement last year when he made it to the finals. His piece is delicate, charcoal sketches of hands overlapping, some reaching, some pulling away.
“Mine is about expectations,” he mutters, eyes fixed on the floor.
“How everyone’s always grabbing at you. Coaches.
Parents. Friends. I guess it’s about trying to figure out which hands are yours.
” There’s an awkward silence when he finishes, but it isn’t mocking.
It’s contemplative. It’s the silence of fifteen pairs of eyes looking at his canvas and empathizing with it.
A petite brunette presents a self-portrait split down the middle, one side hyper-detailed and polished, the other blurred and faceless.
I get the concept before she even speaks, also being split between two versions of myself.
I could have done something similar, but I’m coming to doubt if I have the creative flair I thought I did.
A few drawing classes in the rehab facility and I thought I had some natural, untapped talent.
Now, I’m a fraud amongst the experts, and Liz has just called my name.
Everyone in the room turns to face me, except Reid. His body is locked in place.
My legs are steadier than I expect as I move toward the front, but that doesn’t mean I’m not unraveling inside. I don’t bother to take my blank canvas with me. Liz smiles warmly, which is probably the reason I make it past the door without bolting.
Setting myself beside her desk, I blink up to be trapped in a sea of gray.
Now he looks at me. Or rather, he tracks every micro-expression that crosses my face, cataloguing them for later use.
It’s the first time our eyes have met since the party.
The memory of his hands on my hips in the kitchen flashes through me, followed by the way he nodded when I told him to meet me upstairs.
Heat creeps up my neck, my pulse spiking but I have to ignore him.
Ignore everything I've come to associate with him.
“Meg, I see you haven’t made a start on your first piece yet,” Liz states cautiously. “Tell us what you’re thinking.” Now there’s a dangerous question. Clearing my throat, I keep my focus on the floor.
“Um…well, I figured I would tap into some profound, traumatic feeling and the art would just…happen. So I suppose we’re just waiting for that.
” Liz’s expression doesn’t falter, but it deepens.
I’m thankful for the lack of pity she shows, realizing she’s far too seasoned for that.
It’s refreshing to open up, just a tiny bit, and be met with nothing but curiosity.
“I agree that sometimes, we need to take a step back and allow the emotion to surface,” Liz nods gently, “but we must also be mindful that we’re not simply procrastinating either.
Is there something holding you back from chasing down that feeling yourself?
” I shrug as if the answer to that is easy, that it doesn’t cause my throat to tighten and my eyes to remain glued to her face.
“Well, I’m not the artist.”
“What do you mean?” Liz tilts her head, that curiosity deepening further.
Probing further. I dig deeper, finding myself wanting to give her a little more.
This is more soul searching than any therapist has been able to get out of me.
Looking out across the room, I see my canvas, white and painfully empty.
“You’ve asked for a piece on self-expression, but I’m not the artist. I’m the backdrop. I have no control over the emotions that surface. They’re controlled by the man who took me, who stole everything from me.”
A ripple of discomfort shifts through the room. I don’t care to see who flinches, only who doesn’t. Reid watches me closely now, his gaze piercing mine as I lick my lips.
“You believe your captor to be in control of you,” Liz comments evenly. She doesn’t ask for more or try to change my mind. I turn my head towards her.
“Of course. He defines me. His accomplishments are all the media talks about, the how and the why. They want the gory details and another headline to print. The students around here treat me as if I asked to be taken and tortured, as if I deserved it. It’s not like I wanted to know how beautifully I could bleed, but Harrison showed me anyway.
I’ve been bleeding out ever since, just no one notices anymore. Survival isn’t interesting.”
A muscle jumps in my neck, my jaw aching with the resistance of bursting into tears. Inhaling deeply, I sink my gaze into the chipped groove of a nearby desk. A wash of numbness carries through me, my limbs becoming heavy once again.
The room is silent, no one daring to so much as cough.
I stand there long enough to feel awkward, preparing to walk out of that door and never come back.
I’ll have to drop art, and with it, resign myself to dropping out of the academy.
I was a fool to think I could do this. Stupid to think I could survive him.
“I’m his creation now. I’m ingrained with the narrative he authored. I can’t express myself, and I can’t complete this task.”
“I agree,” Liz says. My head whips towards her face, a sharp inhale sounding that didn’t come from me.
My pulse thrums in my ears, a weight sinking in my gut.
“You can’t put a single paint stroke on that canvas because it won’t be you painting.
I understand that now. We’re not going to give space to your demons until you have control over them. ”
“So…what do I do now?” I ask quietly, almost forgetting a room full of people are watching my impromptu therapy session.
I sense Reid though, my ears catching the idle tapping of fingers against the wood of his desk.
If I weren’t hanging on Liz’s next words, I’d make a sarcastic quip about being sorry for boring him with my pain.
Liz scratches her cheek in thought, the bangles on her wrist clinking together.
“You’re going to take back your story. Leave it with me.”
Happy with that, I nod and excuse myself back to the safety of my seat.
On the way passed, I glimpse a look at Reid’s canvas, which has been turned slightly away from the room.
As I knew it would be, given his usual art style, dark strokes have been splashed across the frame in deep blues and bruised purples, a pencil drawing taking place underneath.
I can’t make it out, but it’ll be something unsettling no doubt.
As if disturbed by my lingering, Reid rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck. Seemingly waiting for me to take my seat, he stands unannounced, grabbing his bag and leaving the room. No one aside from me seems confused by his departure, and I bet, no one else takes it as a personal insult.
I just stood before him and poured my heart out. I just gave this studio more of me than anyone else, and he leaves? I huff irritably, but manage to talk myself down from taking off after him. Good riddance. Now I can brood in peace.