This fixation isn’t about revenge. It’s about recognition. Someone finally sees Adrian’s work for what it truly is—a beautiful void, a perfect shell containing nothingness. The critique didn’t wound his pride; it validated his artistry in a way no praise ever could.
I should warn him. Tell him to let it go. Critics come and go, but bodies—bodies are forever. Unless they’re properly preserved, which is my specialty, not his.
But I recognize the futility. Adrian’s obsessions are like chemical reactions—once initiated, they follow their course to completion. My cautions would be as effective as telling water not to be wet.
“So what happens now?” I ask, knowing we’ve ventured into uncharted territory. Adrian collecting blood from annoying restaurant critics is one thing. Adrian, being fascinated by one, is something else entirely.
He turns to me, eyes alight with a malicious glee.
“I need to see her again.”
6
AMELIA
Istare at the unfinished canvas—my nemesis for the past three weeks. Two days. Just two days until the Ellington Gallery unveilsUrban Cosmos, and the centerpiece remains stubbornly incomplete. The other six paintings stand finished along my studio wall, mocking me with their completion.
“Come on,” I mutter, squeezing more cobalt onto my palette. My hands shake from caffeine and exhaustion. The coffee maker gurgles in the background, brewing my seventh cup today. Or is it the eighth?
I step back, nearly tripping over a crumpled sketch. My studio looks like a disaster zone—dried brushes I forgot to clean scattered across every surface, paint tubes squeezed to death, reference photos taped haphazardly to walls. A graveyard of failed attempts.
The timer on my phone buzzes. 3 AM. Again.
“Sixteen hours and nothing,” I whisper, running paint-stained fingers through my hair. I’ve been here before—staring at this same canvas yesterday, and the day before that, and the week before that.
I know exactly what it needs. The seventh canvas must reveal the hidden constellation pattern that ties the entire series together. The first six paintings contain subtle celestial references embedded in urban landscapes—subway maps that mirror Cassiopeia, streetlights arranged like Orion, skyscraper windows forming perfect renditions of the Big Dipper.
But this one—this final piece—needs to make viewers suddenly see the pattern. That magical moment when chaos reveals its underlying order.
I mix another shade of blue, darker this time. My stomach growls, reminding me that the last protein bar happened sometime around noon. I ignore it.
“Just work,” I plead with my hands. They’ve betrayed me, these hands that usually translate the patterns in my head so effortlessly onto canvas. Now they feel clumsy, disconnected from my vision.
I dab at the canvas, adding shadow to a rooftop edge. Wrong. Again. I wipe it away with a rag, smearing more paint onto my already-stained jeans.
The composition is sound, but something essential is missing—that spark of life that transforms technical execution into art. The soul of the piece refuses to emerge.
I close my eyes, seeing the finished work in my mind with perfect clarity—but opening them again reveals only the stubborn, uncooperative reality before me.
I drop my brush, pressing my palms against my tired eyes. The truth crashes over me. I’m afraid. Not of failure, but of what this painting demands I reveal.
The city I love has another face. Not the glittering skyline or bustling streets that tourists photograph. To capture the constellation pattern—to make itwork—I need to paint that other Chicago. The one that exists at 4 AMwhen normal people are dreaming safely in their beds. The Chicago where shadows move with purpose and the few lights still burning don’t offer safety but expose vulnerability.
I’ve sketched it before—alleyways where deals are made, empty elevated platforms where solitary figures wait with uncertain intentions, windows illuminated when they shouldn’t be. I’ve wandered those streets, feeling both observer and observed. But I’ve always backed away from fully committing that vision to a final piece.
My phone sits silent on the paint-splattered table. No texts from Maya today. Or yesterday. I check our conversation history—my five messages, her one-word reply three days ago.
Fine.
Nothing is fine. Maya hasn’t been the same since Valentine’s Day, since that chocolatier, Adrian Vale, invited her for a “private tasting experience.” She emerged from it somehow transformed—her eyes holding secrets, her usual straightforward manner replaced with something distant and dreamy.
I pick up my brush again, dipping it into the darkest blue I’ve mixed. My hand hovers over the canvas. I can’t stop thinking about the strange duality in Maya’s expression whenever she mentions his name—a mixture of fear shadowed by something else. Fascination? Desire? When we met for coffee last week, she kept tracing the rim of her cup, lost in thought, before suddenly announcing, “He understands me, Amelia. No one’s ever truly seen me before.”
Whatever happened that night took my best friendsomewhere I can’t follow. Just like this painting is taking me somewhere I’ve resisted going.
My brush finally touches the canvas, dragging deep indigo into the shadows beneath an elevated track. I add a solitary figure waiting where no train runs at that hour. I paint the watchful windows, the predatory grace of a city that never truly sleeps.
The darkness flows from my brush now. I understand what the painting needs.
