Chapter 80: GILDED CAGE?
Arianna
My art studio room smelled of paint and, if I were being generous, the faint lingering ghost of that lavender air freshener I bought two months ago for my old apartment- which was put on sale, mind you - and promptly forgot about.
More accurately, it smelled like ambition mixed with turpentine and a healthy dose of procrastination. The kind of smell that clings to your clothes, your hair, and probably the inside of your nostrils, even after a shower. It was, in its own unique and slightly toxic way, my own personal sanctuary.
With a brush in my one hand, still tacky with a shade of crimson I’d later regret mixing, and a palette precariously balanced on my forearm like a highly unstable pizza delivery, I tried to engage in the delicate dance of holding my phone between my shoulder and ear. It was a move I’d perfected over years of being a perpetually busy, perpetually multitasking, and perpetually clumsy artist.
The success rate was, admittedly, less than stellar. Gravity, it seemed, had a particular vendetta against my mobile device.
“Life is so boring here without you, Ari. I wish you lived closer so we could hang out more, but that gorgeous policeman of yours keeps you trapped inside a cage like a pet,” my dearest, most oblivious, best friend, Nicole, ranted with a patented whine that could shatter glass.
She knew him as the city's darling, the stoic investigator who locked up the bad guys. A real-life Sherlock Holmes, as she dramatically declared, completely missing the Moriarty lurking just beneath the surface.
She had no idea how we really met, the subtle manipulations through the messages, stalking me from the shadows that had painted me into a corner of perceived destiny. He hadn't just persuaded me into a relationship; he'd meticulously dismantled any chance I had of saying no, brick by terrifying brick. And then, there was the undeniable pull of the forbidden. He was, after all, the author of my favorite dark romance novels, the ones I devoured in secret, feeling a thrill of delicious unease.
Obsessive love blurred with terror, sometimes to the point where I need to paint my feelings on the canvas.
I was too far gone, too entangled in Vincent’s exquisitely crafted web, to offer a genuine complaint. Besides, protesting would involve explaining the sheer terror and strangely addictive comfort of being his obsession. Which I secretly loved, of course.
For Nicole, bless her cotton socks, he was simply the epitome of eligible bachelor perfection, a badge of honor I’d somehow acquired. She’d cooed incessantly about his intelligence, his sculpted jawline, his uncanny ability to find me anywhere – all while completely overlooking the predatory gleam in his eyes when he looked at me.
At night, under the cloak of starless skies, he was something else entirely. A predator. A grim reaper with annoyingly good taste in everything he wears. And yes, if someone so much as looked at me the wrong way, they tend to…disappear. Accidents, mostly.
Tragic, unforeseen circumstances. The city had a statistically improbable number of those. Their families don’t know that they keep being murdered by one anti-hero in plain sight, walking among them.
My own personal, terrifyingly effective, dark angel.
If Nicole knew all of the secrets I keep from her, she would complain a restraining order against him, saying that my relationship isn’t healthy and is toxic to the maximum extent. Not like it wasn’t true but at least the man doesn’t abuse me. Quite the opposite, he spoils me like a princess so explaining all of that to Nicole would be really complicated.
Some might say, I have issues. Maybe they are right. At least I’m terrifyingly happy.
I chuckled at that, a dry, brittle sound, while meticulously mixing a particularly depressing shade of grey to depict the smoke emanating from my latest artistic endeavor: a shadow monster. Said monster, in a touch I considered particularly poignant, was clutching a single, vibrant yellow flower, as if offering salvation to a world that had clearly given up on it. Deep, right? Or just deeply unsettling, depending on your therapist’s assessment.
“He doesn’t keep me in a cage, Nicole. Don’t be so melodramatic. I’m just… busy with work, that’s all,” I explained, my voice a smooth, practiced lie.
Almost dropped the phone again. Seriously, the engineering of these things was a testament to planned obsolescence. Or maybe just my utter lack of coordination.
My best friend, bless her overly observant heart, noticed my divided attention immediately. “You’re doing it again, aren’t you?” she accused, her voice laced with a familiar blend of exasperation and amusement.
I blinked, feigning innocence. “What?” I asked, carefully dabbing the newly mixed grey onto the monster’s outstretched, shadowy claw.
“Painting while speaking on the phone with me, right by your ear. You know that loud speaker exists, right? It's this magical invention that allows you to, wait for it, use your hands while simultaneously engaging in scintillating conversation. Revolutionary, I know.” I could practically feel her rolling her eyes through the digital ether. The mental image was so vivid, I almost swatted at the air next to me.
“Oh, the loudspeaker,” I said, as if this was a groundbreaking revelation. “Right. Well, you know, multitasking. Efficiency. Gotta make the most of my… freedom.” I almost choked on the last word.
I was free but every word was being heard and every action being monitored. Like I get it, that’s for my protection but it can’t last forever. Vincent will also realize it soon.
“Your ‘freedom’ that involves never being available for spontaneous coffee dates?” Nicole countered, entirely missing the subtle nuances of my carefully constructed sarcasm. It was like trying to explain quantum physics to a particularly stubborn golden retriever.
“Exactly!” I chirped. “So much freedom, it’s practically overwhelming. I’m just… soaking it all in. Like a sponge. A very busy, paint-covered sponge.”
“Right,” she said, drawling the word out like it was some exotic, questionable delicacy. “And this ‘work’ you’re so busy with? Is it another one of your charmingly depressing monsters? Maybe something more twisted and darker?”
“You wound me, Nicole,” I said, dabbing a little too much crimson onto the monster’s surprisingly soulful eyes. “They’re not all depressing. Some of them are speaking to your soul, you know? People tend to be…frustrated with something and I just help them put their feelings on the canvas. It’s like a therapy session and they feel so much better afterwards after receiving my dark paintings. My art speaks to them.”
“Right…sounds uplifting and not totally macabre,” The sarcasm in her voice was almost as potent as the turpentine fumes currently assaulting my nostrils. Almost.