Page 13 of Omega Artist
“Don’t be ridiculous! All I’m saying is that you should start to pay attention. Read her comments. Be nice to your fans. She’s different than most. People usually mention the tattoos; they rarely comment on your paintings.” Her words hurt me, regardless of having no doubt she’s right. “And even if she turns out to be your number one fan, I doubt that she’ll turn into Annie Wilkes.”
“Who’s Annie Wilkes?” That’s Marco’s question. He really is out of it tonight. I wonder how many beers he’s had. And Lucas proceeds to describe Stephen King’s most famous deranged fan from his novelMisery.
The rest of the evening is filled with more fun, silly jokes, and mindless conversation. Bottom line is, it’s about time that I manage my online presence on my own; it’s part of my recovery process, after all.
Back home, I’m starving and need food in my system. Once the smell of the juicy steak informs me that it’s done, I add some greens and basmati rice and sit down at the kitchen table. I put on some classic rock as background noise, since I can’t eat in complete silence, and sing along between bites while checking out the image of me that Claire created on Instagram. Strangely enough, I never have.
And Claire is right. This Alie G person sounds genuinely interested inmyposts, and she digs the canvases that have a darker twist to them. Assuming that she’s a woman from her comments is probably far-fetched since there’s no way to tell; her profile pic is some sort of a logo.
Halfway through dinner, I scroll to the most recent reply that Claire typed on my behalf after Alie commented onmylatest post. T. Rex is on.
Without giving it too much thought, I add a question:
Tig: Why is Fear your favorite painting of mine?
I’m about to check her profile when her response pops up. I wasn’t expecting its speed or content, and it intrigues me to no end.
I fear.
Chapter Five
I Was Hoping
Aliénor
I can’t helpmyself from typing my reply on Tig’s thread. My mouth forms an O when it hits me that it’s now public information. Exhaustion is really messing with my head.
Fuck! What’s wrong with me?
I wasn’t thinking, and my index finger is already hovering over the comment to swipe and delete it when I’m stopped.
Tig: I can totally relate.
My alter ego is left speechless… Trapped is more like it. My online persona, Alie G., cannot erase the evidence.
I’m unsure whether the man that I despise means it or not, but still, my heart tightens. Part of me is torn between glee—because it’s about time he acknowledged my posts after I’ve basically stalked him for months—and astonishment—because today’s the first time the guy responded using actual words. Not just alike. Not just emojis. Not just his usual answer. Words.
I wasn’t supposed to be awake, considering that it’s way past midnight. I wasn’t supposed to have my phone nearby or use it in here for that matter. I wasn’t supposed to get an answer from him at all. In truth, I was hoping, but…
“It’s about time I see a smile on that pretty face.”
The comment breaks through my thoughts. I rapidly scan my surroundings. Because of the size, excessive A/C, and inability to open the windows, the hospital room reeks of antiseptic… and sickness. I welcome the familiar scent, though. Sadly enough, this place has become my home away from home. It’s impersonal. It’s cold. It’s friendly, nonetheless… I spend way too much time here for my taste. For now, it’s dark outside and way too bright in the room.
“Was I smiling?” I ask the tall and sturdy Nurse Paul, who’s studying me from a few feet away. His presence is reassuring; I trust him. Thanks to him, I have access to my phone to combat my boredom and loneliness since waking up in the middle of the night and being unable to fall back to sleep.
“You sure were.” He pauses, then inquires in his high-pitched voice, “Are you ready to give me your phone back?” He takes a few steps towards me. “Nah, I’ll let you keep it a while longer. I can see that it brought you joy,MademoiselleGodefroy… I mean, Madame.”
I don’t argue with the first part of his comment; it’s quite accurate. “Nah, don’t bother, please. Addressing me by Miss is perfect, or you can call me by my first name, of course. Madame Godefroy was my mother, and she’s no longer with us.” At the thought, my heart breaks a little, and my eyes travel across the room to settle on the friendly man’s face.
I miss my mother every single day. After she died, the devoted Catherine tried her best to fill the void left by her absence. I miss the precious confidant that Mother proved to be for me. After Catherine left, it took me a while to allow myself to lean on Sophie, who was in most of my classes. I miss the fighter that Mother was and taught me to be. After Sophie and I became fast friends, I realized how acutely the values that Mother taught me singled me out.
Fairness proponent. Independent woman. Outspoken person. My sisters don’t follow the trend, but I guess that it runs in the family since my grandmother was one of the first women to earn a PhD from an American university. Add Father’s sense of honor, alpha tendencies, and business drive to the mix and you’ve got me. Tough luck!
“But isn’t Madame the proper way of addressing women and girls, for equality’s sake?” My mouth feels as dry as the desert due to the treatment, and swallowing is more painful than usual. “I don’t believe in fighting such ridiculous battles. What’s the point of such a meaningless gesture when women still aren’t treated fairly at work, for example?”
Nurse Paul’s hands fly above his head in surrender.
“I shouldn’t get all worked up over nothing, Paul.” Yeah, I’m on a first-name basis with most of the staff due to my frequent visits over the last few months, and he still refuses to call me Aliénor. “That won’t help me rest, will it?” He approaches, offers a timid smile, hands me a bottle of water, and checks if the drip is correctly placed. I look at what captures his attention. “I’m really sorry that I made things difficult earlier with being a hard stick.”
