I lean forward again, adding a little finer detail, capturing the way those tiny hairs on the slope of her neck stand up when I touch her. The whisper-soft, controlled strokes of the brush are the hardest, and I have to take several breaks to stretch out my hand to be able to continue, but I'm determined to finish this now.
It's so close.
I chew my lip, a bad habit I didn't think I'd ever need to worry about again, as I flick the brush one final time and then set it down with trembling fingers.
I'm not sure what I expected when I finished, but it wasn't for my eyes to suddenly burn.
It wasn't for my chest to grow tight or for it to be harder to breathe.
But there she is. I'd thought it'd be Renaissance style, but even though it's oil, it's not. The chiaroscuro effect of the heavy contrasts of light and dark, the intimacy and detail, it's Dutch Baroque. One of Mom's favorite styles to paint. And I painted it.
The ache in my chest grows, and I clench my teeth to stifle the burn that runs all the way down my esophagus.
It's good.
Even with the mistakes I made.
It's really, really good.
Mom would've loved it.
My chest spasms, and hot tears scatter from my eyes, one landing with the taste of salt on my lips.
I clench my fists on my lap even though it hurts.
The scars on my back throb, but I shut out the memories. I wasn't forced to paint this. I wasn't forced to my knees, stripped bare, and whipped until I relented…or passed out from the pain.
I painted this becauseIwanted to.
It's mine.
Nothis.
I thought he took this from me, too.
But maybe it's not something that can be stolen.
And withouther,I might never have realized I still had this part of my soul.
Two quiet taps sound at the door, and all the blood drains from my face. "Just a second!"
I lift the heavy canvas and rush to the back to stow it away with the blank ones in the supply closet, careful not to smudge any of the new paint. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
My pulse races and my palms grow slick, making me nearly drop it.
"Elijah?" Aurora's soft voice floats through the door.
I kick the supply closet door shut and look down at my apron, covered in haphazard lines and smears of color. I grumble to myself as I pull it off and toss it in the next cupboard, then clench my teeth when I see the paint stains on my hands, the easel still in the middle of the floor, and the little pedestal table covered in the mess of my work.
I sigh and go to the door, mentally kicking myself. There's no reason not to tell her, but I'm not ready yet. I don't want her to see the painting. I was wrong. It's not finished. There's still more work I need to do.
It's not that good.
Not good enough for her.
I clear my throat and unlock the door, opening it to find her waiting on the other side.
"Angel?"
