Back in the kitchen, I rescue the eggs, dump them into cold water, and peel them before anything else can go wrong. Then I put the toast together and turn back to the coffee.
For fuck’s sake.
What a morning.
I haven’t even had my coffee yet, and I’ve already burned myself and nearly set the dorm on fire.
I genuinely don’t understand how you manage to fuck up boiling eggs. It’s water and a stupid egg. What could possibly—
I stop short when I notice the machine is still running. The brew was set to double, overflowing a single cup and spilling over.
Whatever.
I pour the coffee into a larger mug, then sit at the island and eat in silence after all that chaos, my hand still aching as I drink.
Once I’m finished with breakfast and have put everything back in its place, I make my way to the living room.
I stand in the centre of the room, surveying the mess, until one canvas in particular draws my attention.
It’s propped against the far wall, tall, reaching my shoulder. The colours are dark and heavy—charcoal, icy blue, and a deep wine red.
A figure is starting to emerge, its back arched, chest dragged upward as though something unseen has hooked into it.
The eyes are closed. Everything else sinks into shadow, marked only by violent strokes and a smear of colour that could almost pass for blood.
I pick up the remote again and turn the volume up even more, then walk toward the canvas.
On the floor beside my palette sits a tray of paints. I squeeze out fresh colours and lift a brush between my fingers. For a brief moment, I simply hold it there, hovering, before dipping it into the pigment.
After that, it comes easily.
My hands move faster than my thoughts. Every stroke pulls me further into the piece.
Time loses meaning in the way it only does when I paint.
Minutes slip into hours. The music keeps changing in the background, but I barely register it. Everything else falls away until it’s just me, the canvas, and the colours in my hands.
By the time I step back, my breath is uneven, as if I’ve run a marathon, and my fingers are stained to the wrist.
The room has slipped into dusk, the sky outside turned a darkened blue, and I have to switch on the lamp to see the canvas properly.
The clock reads past eight.
I’ve painted straight through the day without realising.
As I take in the finished piece, the woman’s soul being torn from her body while the shadows drag her back, suspended between surrender and survival.
I already know I won’t sell it. It’s going straight into my private collection.
Pieces like this don’t leave my possession.
I rarely part with anything I paint, if I’m honest.
I might post the finished pieces on Instagram, and with the following I’ve accumulated, there is never a shortage of people trying to get their hands on whatever I create.
Collectors send enquiries within minutes, galleries email, call, and occasionally attempt to coax me into full exhibitions.
Even influential people try to secure my work by throwing absurd amounts of money at it.
