Page 4 of Portrait of A Lost Artist
“My God, you have lost your mind—!” Simon shouts, only to be stopped by the shake of my head.
“That’s the thing. I’ve lost it a long time ago and staying here, suffering, living through the same hell every single day isn’t doing me any better.” I respond, standing up from the bed and opening the door wide for him to go through. “So, I’d like for you to leave me alone. Now.”
The sharp edges of my words earn me a glare from Simon, who waltzes his way towards the door before looking at me, face to face. He was once much taller than me, taking care of a kid, shaping him to what he thought would make the best source of money. He didn’t realize that every effort he made to gain fame for me, wrote another insecurity into the book of my life, etching it into my brain.
“You’ll come back in a month, even less. I promise.” Simon breathes out, laughing at my face before getting out of the door. Renna rolls her eyes behind him and though my first thought is to believe him, I also know that staying in solitude for once, lacking responsibility, is exactly what I need right now.
Renna’s fingers jot through the locks of my head, disheveled and falling across my face until she pushes them back. I still can’t look her in the eyes. I had promised her so much as a realist artist, and now, I’m not even half of the man that I was before.
“...Whatever you’re doing, I hope for the best.” She leaves with those words, nodding one last time at me before she closes the door behind her.
At that moment, as silence merges with the noise of the air conditioner, I let my eyes fall closed and lean against the door. My head lulls back, hot tears falling down my eyes that I rub with the sleeve of my shirt. You’re too old to cry. Don’t let yourself feel the pain.
I repeat those words to myself, though the more I say them, the less I feel like they weight me down. So, I let myself fall on those sentiments, dipping my body on my bed and wrapping me up in covers as every plea of help weeps through the sobs escaping my mouth.
I don’t know when sleep overtakes me.
“You only think about yourself.”
Only one day away from leaving for Havana, Jane Rae visits me. Just as my cook is serving me my plate of pancakes, leaving us alone soon after. I had asked Jun to bring me a few of Havana’s newspapers over to my place because I couldn’t find many online and, per my request, he fulfilled. I’m still unsure how he did so; granted that we are in Los Angeles and while Cuba isn’t very far, it also has its political issues, but anyone can trust Jun Cho to get through with a mission.
Jane doesn’t sit. She stands right in front of me, expanding her tall body on top of the marble counter that I rarely use. Though I do recall, somewhere in the beginning of our fake relationship, that we tried to have something bigger than the faint, faux touches in front of a camera and the posing. We had draped our bodies on top of this very counter, kissing through drunken minds, midway through getting our clothes off, and a fight had ensued. Not because she wasn’t gorgeous or capable of getting any man to sleep with her, but because I couldn’t really go through with it. Her personality and mine had never gotten along well.
Simon and her manager were long-lost friends, and they thought it would be amazing to have us together. Her own parents were actors, much like mine were famous, and people adored seeing two children that they scrutinized while growing up getting together.
She looks different. Her black hair curves elegantly over her shoulders, nose done a month into our arrangement, just over a year ago. Her cheeks are rounded, carved just like a model’s face normally does, pouty lips created by injections to craft the universality of perfection. Even Jane Rae LaCroix doesn’t fully embrace the idea of herself. With the new fashion debut that she is making as an ambassador, her clavicles are more visible, an orange skin-tight suit clinging to newfound bones.
I scoff through a laugh, taking a bite of my breakfast. “Jane, listen. We’re not really in a relationship. I can go anywhere and everywhere if I ever so please. What’s the matter?”
“The matter is that my debut is in a month, and all the press will talk about is you not being there if you don’t go. They’ll make my success about our relationship and—”
“That’s not my fault. I’m sorry that it’s like that for you, but I can’t be there just because you want me to play pretend in your little game.” I respond, taking a sip of the orange juice in front of me before she grabs it in between her hands, clasping her digits with enough strength to turn them pale, clashing against her olive skin.
“We have a contract.” Jane, as intelligent as always, makes the situation about her. And I played along with what she wanted, for long enough for me to feel miserable.
“Well, I’ll have my lawyer terminate the contract if that’s what you want.” My voice is hoarse, fluttering my eyelashes closed when she tosses the glass on the floor, painting the tiles with juice. "I don’t want to play the happy couple anymore."
Jane laughs ironically, expanding her hands on her side. “And what is what you want, Nathan? To go to some fucking getaway where you’ll only get high and drunk. You can do that here. It’s what you always fucking do!”
I stand up at that moment, staring at her features with intent. “It’s also what you do.”
“We’re not that different, then; so don’t put me under the radar because we both signed that contract. You’re no better than me.” She points in between the two, soon after moving her hair off her shoulders, fanning herself off as if to ease the anger that builds from within her.
“I’m not saying I’m better.” I start off, trying to keep my voice tranquil, though Jane has never brought that side of me. With her, everything feels exasperating, where every picture kills a part of me ever so slowly. “I’m saying I want to be better.”
“Jesus fucking Christ—”
“Jane, just get out.”
“Now you’re kicking me out?” Her mouth smells like daiquiri, citrusy and making me notice that this is all Hollywood has ever wanted. Everyone is so lost in their own minds and addictions that they fail to see how toxic life can be when everyone knows your name.
“I said get out.”
“Have fun, then.” Jane says, turning around and tossing the middle finger towards me before she chuckles. “I’ll see you around after your brief vacation is over, and you’ll still be the same asshole as always. You really think you’re any better than me? Come on, now.”
I don’t let those words get to me; sighing deeply and watching as Jun silently presses a hand in between her shoulder-blades to coax her away from the house, only to have her cursing at him and pushing him away.
The newspaper that interests me has a name that I can’t decipher, something about ‘day’, it says, from what my vast Spanish knowledge lets me know, but using my phone and casting my camera onto the paper for my translator to make its magic. Lurking through the job hemisphere, I cross mentally the construction jobs or the housemaid ones. There is not a lot to choose from, but as the translator works through a paragraph, I realize what my real venture points at.
