I just have to remember to use it.
Breathe. Take the feeling. Turn it into something.
I look at my half-finished canvas, at the collage I was so proud of this morning.
It’s not bad. But it’s also not great.
It’s just . . . safe.
Safe is pointless. Safe is an illusion.
I wasn’t safe when someone snatched me off the street. And I sure as fuck am not safe here, now, today, in Cole Blackwell’s studio.
I’m not getting the grant, that much is obvious. Blackwell is jerking my chain.
Well, fuck it then.
I take the half-finished collage off the easel and rest it against the wall.
In its place I set the larger canvas, the one that intimidated me, the one I don’t actually have time to complete.
I pick up a bucket of dark wash and I throw it against the canvas, letting it rain down onto the floor.
If this fucker plans to evict me, I’m not gonna baby the hardwood.
I’m so tired of fighting. Every time I feel like I’m getting just a tiny bit ahead in my life, something happens to slap me down again.
Maybe the common denominator is me.
Maybe I am fucking crazy.
And maybe that’s just fine. I’d rather be crazy than be like half the people I meet.
I pick up my brush and start painting with wild abandon, with vast strokes and no hesitation.
I’m Gonna Show You Crazy — Bebe Rexha
Spotify → geni.us/no-saints-spotify
Apple Music → geni.us/no-saints-apple
I think back to that night. I remember the things that I know were real: the cold ground beneath me. The agony of my arched back, bound hands, and bleeding wrists. I remember the lonely rustle of wind in the trees, the black, empty sky.
And then footsteps . . .
Lighter than the ones I heard before.
The hope that fluttered up in my chest.
And the sickening dread when I saw Cole Blackwell looking down on me.
Merciless. Pitiless. Curious . . . but uncaring.
I pick up my pencil and begin to sketch an outline on the canvas: a girl’s body, bent and bound. My body.
He can deny it all he wants. I know what happened. I can draw it clear as a photograph.
I work on the new painting feverishly, until I can hear lights switching off all over the building, people bidding each other goodnight as they leave.
I check the studio door once more to make sure it’s locked. Then I return to the painting and keep working.
I work all night long.
13
Cole
As soon as Mara and I part ways, I make an excuse to the panel and I head back to my own office on the top floor of the building so I can watch what she does next.
All the studios have security cameras mounted above their doors.
The feed from Mara’s streams directly to my computer. When she’s working, I can see her every move.
I watch as she paces the studio, freaking the fuck out.
She held it together in front of me, but now she’s hyperventilating, pulling on her shirt and biting at her nails.
I savor her distress. I want to see her break down.
Or at least, part of me does.
The other part wants to watch her fight.
I enjoy her stubbornness. And I want to crush it out of her.
She pauses in the middle of the studio. Slaps herself hard across the face. The crash echoes in the empty room. I think I am witnessing the moment of fracture.
And maybe I am.
Because Mara cracks. I witness it. But something else steps out from her shell. Someone who stands still, not fidgeting, not tearing at her nails. Someone who doesn’t even glance toward the windows or the doors.
She grabs the half-finished collage and yanks it off the easel. In its place, she throws up a fresh canvas, double the size, and flings a dark wash across it, the paint dripping down onto the floor.
She goes to work, rapidly and rabidly. She’s feverishly focused, paint streaked across her face and down her arms, her eyes fixed on the canvas.
I watch the composition take shape.
She has an excellent eye for proportion, everything in balance.
It’s rare for me to admire other artists’ work. There’s always something to criticize, something out of place. But this is what I noticed about Mara from the moment she dyed that dress: her aesthetic sense is as finely honed as my own.
Watching her work is like watching myself work.
I’m glued to the computer screen, watching for hours as she sketches out her composition and begins to block in the color.
Sonia’s knock on the door startles me. I sit up, frowning as she pokes her head inside.
“You can come out now.” She grins. “The panel’s gone.”