Page 41 of Art of Sin

18depravity

Once upon a time, there was a girl who wore a mask. This mask was her own skin, crafted of delicate curves and innocent hues. Her real eyes, too, were disguised. Painted on as surely as her air of hesitant excitement.

They saw who they wanted to see—who they needed to see. A childhood friend who died. A lover from their youth. A fantasy of a life they would never live. But most of all, they saw beauty and innocence. And like flame to oxygen they came.

Consumed.

She was not alone. There was a boy, too, a special boy who was innocent in a way she had never been. Because of the goodness that clung to him, he was in more danger than she was. She worried for him, held him as he cried at night, after their door was locked and it was only them.

A year passed. Another. Then one day, the girl and boy did something they had never done before. When it was time for them to perform, instead they hid. They were tired of pretending. Playing the parts. Smiling and touching. Being touched.

They hid, but since there was nowhere to go—no way to escape—they were found.

The wrath of their master was great.

Because the girl was older and not as valuable as the boy, she took the punishment upon herself. But though she expected pain, this time was different. This time, she’d pushed their master too far.

She was his creation, and he had the right to unmake her.

And so he did.

* * *

Gideon is no longerpainting but staring at a canvas streaked in blues and reds.

“And then?” he asks softly.

The air I suck into my lungs is thin, leeched of life through exposure—even minimally—to the past.

There’s no excuse for what just came out of my mouth. More than a shameful secret, it’s the key to a rusted, bloodstained door. As the only barrier between me and a lifetime in a windowless room, that door must stay locked. I know this.

Why am I knocking on it?

This man does something to me. Makes me want to remember, or forget, or destroy or create. I don’t know what I feel, confusion transcending my intellect.

Is any of this true?

Did all of that happen?

“Then,” I whisper, my gaze on his hand, poised with a brush-tip over the canvas. “The girl and boy escaped and lived happily ever after.”

“Ah, of course,” he murmurs.

The brush touches the canvas, leaving crimson in its wake.

Awareness creeps in. The quiet room, stillness teased by ripples of sound. The paintbrush moving. My dress’s fabric as I shift. Sensation and taste. Cool air on my neck and coffee at the back of my throat.

This is real. I remind myself, even as I doubt. Perhaps this is real, but maybe I’m not.

“Tell me a story.”

My words, this time. My plea. Gideon lowers the brush, tossing it in a small cup, and faces me. He looks at me not like he’s never seen me before, but like he’s seen all of me. My naked center.

I hate it.

I love it.

“Once upon a time, for the first time, I met a woman I didn’t want to save.” His lips curve, eyes dark and humorless above the smile. “Quite the opposite, actually.”

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