Page 23 of The Witch's Heart
No one will look directly at the gory scene before us. Not for longer than necessary. Not that we need to study it too intently; it’s only a matter of slashing red paint over the outline of a dead body.
Our teacher, a man who never introduced himself by name and insists we simply call him ‘Sir’, paces along the perimeter of our little class holding a metal ruler like the weapon it is. His crinkled brow and set jaw suggest he’s assessing us for some kind of pass or fail. I don’t even want to think about what will happen if we don’t measure up.
Maybe we’ll meet the same fate as the doctor lying in a pool of his own blood while the rest of us look on in an attempt to memorialize his murder through art.
It’s disgusting.
And I’m more upset than I should be that I’ll never talk with him again.
He was only my therapist, and even that was a short-lived connection. But I can’t help the sense of loss that hollows out the center of my chest as I attempt to paint his lifeless form.
A lump grows in my throat, and more tears leak from my eyes.
When I’m finally finished, I set my brush aside and step back, sniffling. Dean and Declan shoot me a look, but I avoid their eyes, lost to my own sadness.
I’ve seen some things that have scarred me, but this…this is beyond anything I could have imagined being forced to endure. How do they get away with this? How is any of this allowed?
Sir stalks over and frowns as he studies my work.
“You were told to paint exactly what you see,” he snaps.
Declan shoots me a look.
“I did,” I say quickly, gesturing to what is obviously an exact copy of the bloodied corpse that I’m still hoping isn’t really Dr. Livingstone himself. Some desperate part of me thinks maybe it’s a fake brought in from some prop company. It can’t possibly be him. A man who was employed here and alive just yesterday.
Someone couldn’t have committed murder for the sake of our art class.
This place is crazy but it’s not . . .thatcrazy. Right?
“I am not a man who enjoys humor or tricks, Miss D’LeLune.”
Sir’s tone is cold and full of warning, but I shake my head, pointing.
“I did what you said. I painted the model exactly as I see it,” I insist through the tears and hiccups. I know he can’t complain about my technique. I may not be the next DaVinci, but my skill is solid. It’s the subject matter that’s turning my stomach. Even the morbid work of Theodore Gericault and his severed heads can’t hold a candle to the gruesomeness of what I’m witnessing right now.
Sir glances pointedly towards the door.
Nurse Schmidt steps forward.
“You didn’t tell me this one would be trouble,” he says to her.
She rolls her eyes. “They’re all trouble in one form or another. What do you want me to do about it?”
Sir hisses—actually hisses—and a wave of dizziness washes over me. I sway as the room tilts suddenly sideways. My arm flails as I reach for the easel to steady myself. Instead, I knock my brush loose and it falls, splattering Sir with bright red paint as it clatters to the floor.
Everyone stops painting.
A hush falls over the others.
Declan moves closer, and when I lose my balance, his arms catch me before I can crack my head on the hard floor.
Darkness overcomes me, and for long moments, I am lost to it, vaguely aware of voices and movement around me.
Yelling.
An easel knocked aside.
Footsteps.
