Chapter 18 #2
I hesitate, not sure how to explain. "Something that shows us. Not literally us, and nothing identifiable, but something that captures what we are together."
"Do you have any ideas?"
“Yes, but I don’t want to give it away. It’s a surprise.”
“Fine by me, baby. Show the world what we are without showing them who we are."
"Exactly."
Later that night when Dom is asleep, I start the final piece.
I use a different method which I have been experimenting with over the past few months. Charcoal. It's gonna be a large charcoal drawing, bigger than anything else in the portfolio. The paper is expensive, archival quality, the kind that will last for decades. It’s meant as a statement piece.
So I draw us…not our faces or identities. But our essence.
A man's hand wrapped around a woman's throat in a firm, possessive manner. The woman's hand is on his wrist, not trying to pull away, but holding him there and accepting what he gives. Their bodies are pressed together, intimate and violent at once.
The darkness we share, rendered in charcoal and shadow. I work on it for three days straight, obsessing over every detail. The tension in his fingers. The curve of her neck. The way their bodies fit together like pieces of the same puzzle.
When I finally finish, I step back and look at it.
I love it beyond words. It’s the truth of who we are and in some ways it feels too personal to share, but it’s too magnificent not to.
This is who we are, two people bound together by the truth everyone else is too afraid to see. I pin it to the wall and go find Dom.
He's in the living room, scrolling through his phone, no doubt looking for more inspiration. When he sees my expression, he sets the phone aside.
"You’ve finished?" he asks.
"Yeah. Come see."
He follows me to the darkroom and stops in the doorway when he sees the drawing. For a long moment, he doesn't say anything, before he grabs my hand and squeezes it tightly.
"This is us," he says quietly.
"You like it?"
"I fucking love it. It’s really us.”
He turns me around and lifts me as I wrap my legs around his waist, carrying me to the bedroom. He lays me down with care onto the mattress, his eyes never leaving mine.
"I need to claim you," he says.
"Do it."
All I am wearing is one of his old long shirts with nothing but panties on underneath. He pulls my shirt off and studies my body, the already fading hickeys from days ago, the smooth skin waiting to be claimed again.
When he has had his visual fill, he leans down and bites my throat. Hard enough to leave a mark and hard enough to make me squeal out in pain and pleasure.
"This is where my hand belongs," he says, his thumb brushing over the mark. "Right here. Claiming you, owning you."
I’m breathing so hard, I can barely speak. He moves his mouth lower, nibbling on my collarbone, my breast, leaving marks that mirror the drawing. His hand on my throat. His mouth on my skin. Claiming every part of me.
"This is what we are," he says between bites. "Violence and intimacy. Darkness and love."
"Yeah."
"Nobody will ever see the real us. It’s only for us."
"Our secret."
He pulls back to admire his work, hickeys blooming across my throat, my chest, my stomach. Visible marks of ownership.
"Perfect," he murmurs. Then he's inside me, claiming me completely.
The sex is intense, possessive and basic worshipping. He fucks me like he's trying to merge our bodies into one, like he's trying to make sure I never forget who I belong to.
"You're mine," he growls. "This work is mine. All of it is ours alone."
"Yeah."
"Say it."
"I'm yours. The work is yours. All of it belongs to us."
"Good girl."
When we cum, it's together with a shared release that feels like a prayer, a binding, a permanent mark.
"What are you going to call it?" he asks. "The drawing."
I’ve been mulling this over for a while, and only one title keeps popping up in my mind.
"Toxic Devotion."
He stares at me before belting out a loud laugh, a dark, satisfied sound that I’ve never heard from him before. It makes my heart swell.
"Genius idea," he says. "That's exactly what we are."
"Toxic fuck ups."
"Or you could say toxic and devoted and completely bound together."
"Softie."
He kisses my forehead. "Now you know that’s not true. But seriously, as soon as you finish the portfolio, then we can submit. But keep Toxic Devotion to ourselves for now, it’s too special to part with yet."
"Agreed."
A week later and I now have twenty-six pieces. That’s more than enough for a strong portfolio. Fifteen crime scene photographs, eight drawings of strangers suffering, broken moments captured in graphite and shadow.
Two environmental decay studies of abandoned buildings, forgotten places, the residue of human presence.
And then the finale, Toxic Devotion, the drawing of us, darkness and intimacy merged into one.
I organize them carefully, creating a narrative flow. The portfolio tells a story that death is sacred, suffering is truth and darkness is beautiful. It's everything I've been working toward. Everything I am.
The next day I decide to run an idea past Dom.
"Maybe I should show some of these to a few people in the art community. Get some early feedback before submitting to galleries."
Dom's response is immediate and sharp.
"No."
I look up from the portfolio. "No?"
"The gallery is a risk on its own, it’s better not to raise interest before we know if they want to represent you, baby."
"I’m just excited to share these," I say softly.
"And you will."
The next day I write the email to Sarah Vance at Void Gallery. I've researched her carefully. She's a curator known for showing transgressive work, boundary pushing photography, artists who document the underbelly of society. It’s the best match for me.
I attach a selection of images from the portfolio, excluding Toxic Devotion, as that one stays private for now, and I write a brief introduction.
Dear Ms. Vance,
I'm a photographer and artist working in dark subject matter of crime scenes, environmental decay, human suffering. I believe my work aligns with Void Gallery's aesthetic and would love to discuss potential representation.
Please find attached a selection of images from my current portfolio.
Best.
I don’t use my name or identity. Nothing that connects back to the old Roxy who's supposed to be lost in the world.
Before I send it, I show Dom. He reads the email carefully, studying the attached images, then nods.
"Send it," he says.
"You're sure?"
"Yeah. This is good. Professional. Anonymous enough to be safe."
I hit send and we wait.
That night, we stand in the darkroom surrounded by the twenty-six pieces of the portfolio. The photographs, the drawings, the story of our journey that’s now a memory that is detailed forever.
Dom's arms are around me, his chin resting on my head.
"People are gonna see our story through your eyes, baby. She better understand exactly what she's getting and treat this work right."
"She will. I can feel it, Dom. This feels right."
“You’re legit, baby,” he says, and I laugh as I wrap my arms around his neck. Everything is finally falling into place.