With Henry, I feel like I can see straight through his lenses, his eyes, and his skull into his mind. It’s like talking to myself.
But with Bram, things are never transparent. At least, not on myend. He always seems to know what I’m thinking, whilehismind remains a locked box. He’s always playing games, saying one thing but meaning another. For all I know, he could run straight to Adam and tell him everything.
I hear the machine brewing over in the kitchen and check my phone again. My text to Henry is still unread, and I’m antsy not knowing what I said to upset him earlier.
Bram’s voice calls to me from the kitchen. “Cream and sugar?”
“Yes, please.”
A moment later, he ambles back in, a mug in each hand. “Thanks,” I say as he sits down beside me, slightly too close.
Again I get a flash of that day in his room.
I’d come over here to help Adam with his summer school assignment. For whatever reason—likely pride—he never allowed Henry to help with schoolwork, so I was his tutor. Only that day, Adam forgot about our session, and Bram was the only brother at home.
He invited me in, much like today, and I asked if I could see the painting he was working on. I expected an automaticno; he never showed anyone his paintings. It was part of the whole mystery that is Bram. In fact, hardly anyone even knows he paints. But if you look closely, there’s often a trace of black or red beneath his fingernails.
Not that I look closely at Bram.
To my surprise, he hesitated, deliberating with his hands in the pockets of his black jeans and an endearing twist of the lips. “All right,” he finally said. “But if you make fun of me, I’ll tell everyone about that time you fed Igor cheese and he got sick all over Mom’s rug.”
“Hey! I never had a dog before.”
“And we never did again, thanks toyou.” He grinned and bumped my shoulder with his.
Bram’s paintings were stowed in his massive walk-in closet, the canvases covered in white sheets.
“Why don’t you hang these up around the house?” I asked. “It’s not like your family is short on wall space.”
“Haven’t felt like it.” He shrugged, his rogue expression turning contemplative. “These paintings are about what’s on the inside. I guess displaying them just seems…wrong.”
“But isn’t that what painting is? Showing others what you’re thinking and feeling?”
“Maybe I don’t want anyone to know what’s in here,” he said, tapping his temple.
I rolled my eyes. “Has Mariana seen it?”
Bram shook his head. “You’re the first.”
I was surprised. Mariana and Bram seemed so close. Their relationship was one of the reasons I failed to see the risk in stepping into the walk-in closet alone with Bram.
That may have been the first mistake I made that day.
He reached for the easel that faced the back of the closet. “I’ll warn you, it’s a work in progress. The beginning stages, really.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” I bounced on the balls of my feet, excitement building at seeing something no one else had laid eyes on.
“Please temper your expectations,” Bram said, his brows drawing together.
“Just show me.”
“Fine.” He lifted the sheet between two fingers, like a magician revealing a birdcage. “Voila.” He let the sheet fall to the floor. “I call it…well, nothing yet.”
I looked upon the painting, stunned. I’d had no idea what to expect, but maybe I should have formed some visualization beforehand. Obviously, I wouldn’t have pictured a landscape with colorful flowers or green hills. Nothing vibrant or cheerful, not from Bram.
But I never could’ve envisioned what perched on the easel before me. The blackness, texturized by the brush and palette knife, grays and dark blues blended to form an image, something like a face. The one bright streak of red. The abstractness, sharp lines meeting delicate curved ones, giving the macabre illusion of teeth sinking into soft flesh. The utter destruction represented on the canvas. The absence of life.
It was like I was viewing Death itself. It was visceral, grotesque, and shocking.
