Chapter 17: The Aftermath (Leo POV)
Chapter 17: The Aftermath (Leo POV)
I’m standing in my apartment, the door still shaking from when Daniel walked out. “It’s over,” he said, his voice flat, leaving me grabbing at him, yelling “Don’t!” until he was gone. My hands are shaking now, my chest tight, like something’s crushing me. Rent’s paid, fifteen grand from the buyer, ten from the next, twenty lined up tomorrow, but it doesn’t matter. He’s gone. I sent him a text, “You’re a coward,” and he hasn’t answered. I drop onto the mattress, springs creaking loud, and stare at the ceiling, paint cans scattered around me. My eyes burn, wet, but I wipe them hard with my sleeve, leaving streaks on my face.
I get up, slow, my boots heavy on the floor, and grab a canvas from the stack. It’s blank, rough, and I slam it onto the easel, the thud loud in the quiet room. I pick up a brush, dip it in black paint, wet and thick, and start slashing at it. Hard strokes, fast, my arm moving like it’s fighting something. Daniel’s face comes out, his sharp jaw, his dark eyes, every line sharp and angry. “You bastard!” I yell, my voice cracking, and slash more paint, red now, dripping down the canvas. My hands shake, paint splattering onto my jeans, my shirt, but I don’t stop. He left me. Said his family was too much, but I know it’s his dad, that jerk pushing him away.
I keep painting, hours passing, the room dark except for a lamp in the corner. The canvas fills up, his face over and over, cut with red, black, blue, like he’s bleeding out of me. My phone buzzes on the table, loud and sharp, pulling me out of it. I drop the brush, it clatters to the floor, and grab the phone. It’s Max. I answer, my voice rough. “What?” He’s loud, excited. “Leo, man, you’re hot now! Art’s selling despite the rumors, two more buyers today, fifteen grand each. You’re in!” I grip the phone tight, my knuckles white. “I don’t care,” I snap, my voice low. “Cancel it.” He stops, quiet for a second. “What? You serious?”
“Yeah,” I say, louder now. “I’m done with this crap. Leave me alone.” I hang up, tossing the phone back, and it hits a paint can, knocking it over. Black spills across the table, slow and messy, but I don’t clean it up. I grab the brush again, slashing harder, Daniel’s eyes staring back from the canvas, mocking me. My chest hurts, like something’s ripping inside, and I throw the brush down, paint splattering the wall. He’s gone, and I’m stuck here, alone, with nothing but these stupid paintings.
A knock hits the door, soft at first, then louder. I wipe my hands on my jeans, leaving black streaks, and stomp over, yanking it open. Mia’s there, her hair loose, eyes red like she’s been crying again. “Leo,” she says, voice small, stepping closer. “I’m here. I heard about Daniel, I just want to help.” I shake my head fast, my voice hard. “No. Get out.” She reaches for me, her hand trembling. “Please, I, ” I cut her off, loud. “Go! I don’t need you!” She steps back, tears falling, and turns away, the door slamming shut behind her, the bang echoing in my ears.
I slump against the wall, my head back, breathing fast. The room’s a mess, paint everywhere, canvases leaning crooked, the mattress sagging in the corner. I saved this place, but it feels empty now, hollow. Something thuds by the door, soft but heavy, and I look over. A letter’s on the floor, slid under, thick and white. I pick it up, my hands sticky with paint, and rip it open. It’s from Daniel’s dad, typed, cold, straight to the point. “$50k to leave town. Take it and go, or I finish you.” My blood runs hot, my hands shaking, and I tear it up, fast, pieces falling to the floor like snow. “Screw you,” I growl, my voice low, kicking the scraps away.
I step back to the easel, staring at Daniel’s face on the canvas, red paint dripping like blood. My hands clench, nails biting my palms, and I grab another brush, slashing over it, black covering his eyes, his mouth. I hate him. I miss him. Rent’s paid, art’s selling, but it’s not enough, he was supposed to be here with me. I drop the brush, my chest heaving, and turn to the window, the street dark outside. I saved my life, but lost him, and it cuts deep, sharp, like a knife. I mutter, “I’m not running,” staring at the shredded paper on the floor, my voice firm, loud in the quiet. A shadow moves outside my window, quick and dark, cutting through the light, and I freeze, my breath stuck in my throat.