Page 53 of The Assistant
For the time being, I just want to focus on healing my trauma. I’ve been drawing again. It took a long time to come around to wanting to make art, but it’s been therapeutic. The monsters that I used to make are still the centerpiece of my work, but they’re more raw and vivid than they’ve ever been before. I guess it took meeting more real-life monsters to truly understand the ones I create.
The first week of classes goes by in a blur. It’s mostly introductory information, going over the class syllabuses and covering the basics of the different courses. One of my classes happens to be more strenuous than all the others, with a very rigorous course load and nightly homework to be turned in online.
On top of that, there’s so many people to meet. Most people are extremely friendly and eager for the new life set out in front of us. I’ve actually made some friends. It’s nothing like what I thought school would be like, either. I’ve seen on plenty of TV shows and movies how strenuous college course loads can be. But then again, this is art school, and it’s focused more on us shaping our creativity and unique world views than anything else.
After Professor Carlson’s art history class on Friday, I head to the cafe on campus to get a head start on work before the weekend. I have some money saved up from working for Dawson, but I took a job at a cafe in town to make ends meet while I’m in school. Even though he agreed to pay my way through college, I feel as though I need to earn my own money too.
I take a seat at one of the tables with my laptop open as I begin looking up Caravaggio’s paintings online to study each and every one of them, putting them in chronological order. Professor Carlton is a big Caravaggio fan, which I can really get behind.
I start looking over his paintings, landing on the Medusa painting and studying it intensely. Looking at this painting, I understand why so many people who have stories like mine resonate with Medusa. It’s a tragic story of male power and always blaming a woman, making her a victim of their need to possess. I stare at the painting so long I feel like I start losing myself in it.
Then I get the sensation that I’m being watched. Tearing my attention away from the laptop screen, I look around the cafe to see that most other students have their noses in a book or are in the middle of drawing on their sketch pads or tablets. One of the perks of being in art school is being surrounded by like-minded artists. None of them seem to be paying me any attention though.
I’m about to shrug it off as paranoia when I look out the window. I freeze, my heart skipping a few beats when I see him standing outside. Dawson’s eyes meet mine, and he offers me a subtle wave.
Every cell in my body is alert. My brain is immediately associating him with very complex memories, and I don’t know how to navigate this properly.
I close my laptop screen and wave back at him, signaling for him to come in and join me. He walks in cautiously and looks around the cafe before taking a seat across from me.
“Hi,” Dawson says with a strange smile.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” I say. I do my best to keep my voice as emotionless as possible, but I don’t think I do a good job. My voice cracks, and I have to clear my throat to keep the emotion at bay. My breathing turns ragged, and Dawson takes note.
“I know. It’s not part of our arrangement that I show up unannounced like this, but there’s something I wanted to show you.” Dawson hesitantly pulls a folded newspaper article from his pocket. I nod, and he opens it and spreads it out on the table, pointing to an article in the obituary section.
I lean in closer to read what it says, almost expecting it to be something about what happened with Malik. When I read it, though, I’m nothing but surprised.
“David Cornwall, 52, found dead in his Palo Alto home after an electrical fire whilst he was sleeping. David is survived by his wife, Caroline, and stepdaughter, Irena.” I read the words out loud, but somehow, they still don’t register for a few beats. Then it clicks. He’s gone.
The memory of being fourteen and forcibly made to give him a blowjob resurfaces alongside images of him lying in bed at night being swallowed by flames.
“Dawson, did you...” I stare at him with wide eyes, not knowing how I’m supposed to react to this. A part of me should be horrified that he would go to such great lengths to do something like this. But I’m not. I’m relieved that he’s gone.
“I made sure he suffered before he died,” Dawson says in a whisper. I look around nervously to ensure nobody else can hear, but everyone is still focusing on their own work.
I let out a long exhale and feel a weight I have grown so used to carrying disappear from my shoulders. Dave is gone. He was a monster, and he abused me, like he very well might have other people. He’s not going to hurt anyone now, not ever again.
“I don’t know what to say.” I shake my head and look down at the newspaper, still in awe of the news.
“You don’t have to say anything at all. Consider this a formal apology for everything I put you through,” Dawson says, still whispering. “I know this doesn’t even begin to make up for it, but I just wanted you to know that I am doing everything I can to keep you safe.”
I nod appreciatively, and he stands up, preparing to leave. “Wait. Why don’t you stay for coffee?”
Dawson stares at me with a warm smile and immediately nods. He orders a black coffee from the counter and sits across from me as he holds it between his hands. He takes a sip and contorts his face in disgust.
“This is like drinking gasoline,” he jokes, pushing the coffee aside.
“I guess college students don’t have the most discerning palates.” I laugh as I grab the coffee and sniff it. Dawson watchesme with a calm smile as we slip into a brief moment of normalcy—everything in the past temporarily forgotten while we sit here together. It’s nice.
Dawson asks me about school and classes, and if I’ve been drawing anything for any of them that I might want to show him. I tell him everything I can, maybe a little too much. I tell him all about the classes and the other students I’ve met. He’s excited to hear that it sounds like I have friends now. Plus, I’ve been staying in contact with Ella.
We talk until the cafe closes, and Dawson walks me back to my dorm room. I’m tempted to lead him upstairs to show him how I’ve decorated it, how it will go against everything he believes in for decorations. There’s too much color everywhere for him. I stop myself before I utter the words to invite him though.
Bringing him upstairs is a bad idea. Even if there’s a part of me that wants to wrap my arms around him and hold him close, I know it’s foolish. We need time apart. I have to find a way to let everything go.
“This is me,” I say as I point to the door.
“I should get going too,” Dawson says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “It was really nice getting to talk to you, though. I wish we could do it again sometime. But I understand that might not happen.”
