Chapter 81: NEGLECTING FRIENDS ARE RUDE
Arianna
“They’re a commentary on the human condition,” I declared, with the air of someone who had just solved world hunger. “The inherent duality of light and darkness. The struggle for hope in the face of existential dread. You know, light stuff.”
“Sure, Ari. Light stuff. So, what profound philosophical statement is this particular harbinger of doom trying to convey?”
“Well,” I said, carefully positioning the yellow flower in the monster’s surprisingly slender fingers, “he’s offering a flower. As a symbol of… well, that’s up for interpretation, isn’t it? Perhaps it’s a peace offering. Or a bribe. Maybe he just has bad breath and is trying to mask it. The beauty of art, Nicole, is its ambiguity.”
“Or maybe,” Nicole suggested, with a sigh that spoke volumes about the years we’d been friends, “it’s just another way for you to avoid talking about Vincent.”
Bingo.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, perhaps a little too quickly. “Vincent is… perfectly fine. We’re perfectly fine. In fact, everything is so perfectly fine, it’s almost… suspiciously fine.” Did she hear the slight tremble in my voice? Probably not.
After Brian’s death, two weeks ago, I started having nightmares about the way Vincent killed him in front of my eyes but only when I was sleeping alone. With Vincent, all the bad dreams disappeared. It was like…he consumed them himself so I can sleep like a kitten in his arms. The mix was both fascinating and terrifying.
I knew it was unhealthy. Every logical fiber of my being screamed at me to run, to find a sunlit corner of the world and never look back. But the thought of severing that connection, of relinquishing the darkness that had become so intrinsically linked to my existence, filled me with a terror far greater than any nightmare.
The thought of sleeping alone again, of facing the horrors of my past without his shield… it was unbearable.
Ironic, isn’t it?
The very same person who had killed people and the source of my trauma, makes all the bad dreams go away. Funny if you think about it in a positive way.
“Right. Suspiciously fine,” she echoed, her voice dripping with skepticism. “So, this ‘perfectly fine’ man isn’t keeping you locked away in your studio, forcing you to paint disturbing creatures all day?”
I snorted, trying for nonchalant, landing somewhere closer to hysterical. “Oh, Nicole, you have such a vivid imagination. Honestly, where do you get these ideas? Locked away? Please. I have the key to the front door. Technically. Although, he does have a rather… persuasive way of suggesting I stay in. For my own safety, of course.” In a really seductive way where he pins me down on the bed and has his way with me.
And what’s more crazy? I love it.
“Of course,” Nicole said, the sarcasm so thick you could spread it on toast. “Your safety. Right. I didn’t know that dating a detective would be so difficult. So, when are you going to escape this ‘perfectly fine’ existence for a girls’ night? I’m thinking karaoke. You can serenade me with your rendition of ‘I Will Survive.'"
I shuddered internally. The thought of being out, vulnerable, without Vincent’s… watchful presence, sent a jolt of fear through me. But I couldn’t let Nicole know that. Couldn’t reveal the extent of my carefully constructed facade. On the other hand, the thought was lovely and I miss our nights together, having fun.
“Karaoke?” I repeated, feigning a thoughtful frown. “Oh, you know, with all this intense artistic… freedom… I’m just so drained in the evenings. The creative process, you know. It takes its toll. All those deep, meaningful thoughts about optimistic shadow monsters.”
“Right,” Nicole said again, the word now a weaponized form of disbelief. “Well, just let me know when you’re ready to rejoin the land of the living. The one where people occasionally leave their houses and sing off-key in public.”
“Well…” I guess, the idea wouldn’t hurt,” Maybe we can do that next Sunday? I can take my day off from all my artistic work. We can do a coffee date in that cosy coffee shop “Delicately roasted” where we always stopped in the mornings, then we can have a bowling match and in the evening, we can go sing our asses off as you suggested,” I pondered for all the things we could do,” We can finish with a sleepover. We can have a perfect girl’s night,” I offered, trying to ease her worries about my confined life in this very moment.
There’s a beat of silence and then,” Really? You would do that for me?” A hint of disbelief was heard in her voice and I smiled.
“Yes, we can do that for sure.”
“What about your boyfriend? He will allow you to step a foot outside alone with me?”
Nicole’s question hung in the air, laced with a challenge I wasn’t sure how to meet.
“Allow?” I echoed, trying to infuse the word with a light, dismissive tone. “Nicole, darling, I’m a grown woman. Vincent doesn’t ‘allow’ me to do anything. We… discuss things. We’re partners.” Partners in a slightly unbalanced power dynamic, where he held all the cards, but partners nonetheless. At least, that’s what I told myself when I wasn’t too busy being breathless from his touch, too lost in the intoxicating pull of his presence to care about labels.
“‘Discuss’,” Nicole repeated, drawing the word out as if it were a particularly suspect piece of evidence. “Right. Because ‘discussions’ always involve you suddenly becoming a hermit who churns out increasingly unsettling artwork and forgets that friends exist.”
Ouch. She wasn’t pulling any punches. And honestly, she wasn’t entirely wrong. My social life had taken a nosedive since Vincent had… entered it. No, that wasn’t quite right. Since Vincent had taken over it.
But it was a takeover I had, in a way, willingly participated in. Lusted after, even.
“Look,” I sighed, trying to navigate this treacherous conversation without revealing too much of the truth, the thrilling, terrifying truth that Nicole wouldn't understand, “Vincent is… protective. You know, detective and all that. He sees the world in, shall we say, a more ‘realistic’ light. And he just worries about me. Especially with… everything.”
“Everything?” Nicole pounced on the vague term. “What ‘everything’? Last time I checked, the biggest threat in your life was running out of paint before finishing a deadline. Has a rogue art critic started stalking you?”
I chuckled, a weak, brittle sound. “No, nothing like that. Just… you know, the city. It can be unpredictable. He just wants me safe.” Safe in my studio, in his apartment, in his arms, under his watchful gaze. Safe and… his.
The possessive thrill of it shot through me even now, a dangerous current that warmed my blood.