“Royal,” she’d say, “another portrait? No one wants pictures of me.”
“I do.”
Even she didn’t understand his artist’s soul.
She had no idea how beautiful she was. Indeed, her soft beauty was the only thing that helped him survive life in the hellhole they used to call a home. In Jinny, he found his refuge, his peace.
The only love he’d ever known.
He used to have dreams of painting her in oil and watercolor, and those dreams always turned into nightmares when he realized he couldn’t do her justice.
No matter how skilled he might be with the paintbrush, his artworks lacked soul. There was always something missing, a light, a spark. Her precious humanity. How on earth did one capture that?
There was no medium that replicated the soft give of real flesh. No blending of paints could achieve the highlights in her hair as she modestly turned her face from him.
He used to joke with her. “I’m afraid the only way I can preserve your beauty for all time is to steal it.”
“That’s morbid.”
Was he morbid? Perhaps.
He’d certainly felt that way growing up. He’d always suspected there was something wrong with his spirit animal. His bear wanted blood, wanted it all the time. As a result, Royal dreamed of taking lives, of wringing the last bit of life out of creatures big and small. The bear’s unnatural hunger pushed Royal’s own interests toward pain and death. Even as a child, his fascination had been hard to hide.
He supposed it couldn’t be helped. With a father who beat him and who sexually abused his Jinny on a regular basis, he found himself constantly dwelling on suffering. Royal liked to hurt himself, too, pushing his boundaries for pain. He always figured if he hurt himself enough, he’d build up a tolerance so his father couldn’t hurt him.
But then one day his need to punish his father made Royal lash out. He’d cornered a stray cat in the alley behind their house. Jinny came upon him as he set the creature on fire.
“Royal! What are you doing to that poor thing?”
He’d never felt so bad, not because her words conjured up remorse but because he’d been enjoying himself and didn’t care to stop. He’d wanted to see the last flicker of light in the creature’s eyes before it dimmed.
Somewhere along the line, he’d become his father.
“Are you going to stop me?” he demanded of Jinny.
She’d approached him, fear in her eyes. She’d placed a small hand on his chest and looked him right in the eye. “Don’t. You’re not Dad.”
Only he was, and never more so than in that moment. Jinny’s quiet bravery affected him as it never had before. Her lips called to his. Her cheap, girlish perfume taunted his nostrils. His wicked bear had rushed to the fore, demanding a taste.
He’d kissed his sister that day, full on the mouth.
Shocked, she hadn’t stopped him.
He hadn’t stopped at kissing her.
In the midst of what had first felt like a violation, he’d experienced bliss. His bear had sought out his sister’s bear. He’d marked her, again and again, scarring her tender skin. He could still taste her on his tongue now, so many years later.
That night, as he prepared to sneak out of her room, he’d made her promise never to tell. “No one will understand our love. I’ll protect you from Dad. I’m bigger now, and I can stop him from hurting you.” He’d caressed her cheek. “You’re mine now.”
She didn’t argue. She never argued. He loved that about her.
As he aged, he progressed from torturing and killing animals to hunting bigger prey. One day, he’d realized he could cash in on his kills. His underground business had taken flight.
For a while, thanks to regular hunting trips, his need to torture abated. He had a successful business, a private one and another the public saw, and he didn’t want to screw them up.
He installed Jinny in his home and began painting her in provocative poses. She’d kept their secret, and every time he went to her, he thrilled in the knowledge she was his and his alone.
His perfect, private Muse, one who drove his art to new heights.
