Page 94 of Into Pitch

Then I stop.

I stare at it and know exactly what’s missing.

People.

Not faces or bodies, but just silhouettes.

Two dark shapes emerge in the windows, one fairly larger than the other. I paint them so that neither can escape, and my hand trembles as I do so. I don’t create gore or spectacle, but the presence is there. Just the unmistakable truth that someone is still inside and that it will forever be where they rest.

And then everything is finished.

I step back deeper into the room that smells like oil paint and feels so much like satisfaction. I’m not sure how much time has passed other than the sun has begun to dip, for quite some while.

The painting being framed by the dying sun is a brilliant thing.

It’s not a metaphor or accusation, but me telling Alexander that I see him without ever opening my mouth. So, I leave the canvas exactly where it is—centered and impossible to ignore—and wash my hands slowly in the kitchen sink. Paint stains clinging to my cuticles as I grab a rag to get them completely clean.

I’m in the middle of a sandwich for dinner when I hear the car. The tell-tale tune of gravel crunching outside that is loud in the quiet. My stomach flips in anticipation as I shoot to my feet, just in time to watch the door slide open.

He offers me a soft smile and my eyes dart to the sunroom, which of course he follows. His curiosity must get the best of him, neither of us exchanging words as he slips within to see what I have done.

I follow him into the room and look to him, not particularly fond of what I find.

The longer he looks at the painting, the less controlled he becomes. It’s not inherently noticeable, but it’s a tightening in his jaw, a stillness that feels coiled instead of calm.

Something tells me I might have fucked up.

“You chose fire.”

I swallow. “It felt honest.”

He turns his head to look at me over his shoulder, and I still at the sharp way they land on me. Alert and very unamused.

“What were you hoping I’d feel?” He asks, barbed.

Oh, so I’ve finally found what makes him tick.

I push away from the doorway, stopping just short of him. “Whatever it is you’ve been trying not to.”

He turns fully then and the space between us crackles.

“That was deliberate,” he says quietly.

I meet his gaze, unflinching. “So was leaving me alone with your past.”

Something breaks behind his eyes.. I wouldn’t say it was explosive or loud, but just enough. He turns back to the painting and stares at it for a long moment.

Then, without warning, he reaches for it.

I tense, expecting him to tear it down or rip it apart, but he lifts it off the easel with controlled precision and carries it toward the stone hearth.

“Alex,” I start.

He doesn’t look at me as he sets the painting inside the fireplace, props it carefully against the grate like it deserves a ceremony. I gasp as he strikes a match and tosses it in. I jerk forward as the painting catches flame.

“Alex!” I bark as the canvas curls and blackens as the fire climbs, devouring the image piece by piece. Orange eats orange. Smoke twists upward, thick and bitter.

I watch the house collapse again, this time for real. And not once does Alex look away from it. He just stands there, watching it burn until there’s nothing left but warped wood and ash.