Page 2 of To Love a Monster
The landscape changes, and with it, something in me unravels.The road narrows further, flanked by dense woods, and the sky feels closer, boxed in by branches.I imagine the cabin waiting for me, its walls a sanctuary, a cage, a place where I can be everything and nothing.A place where I’ve always found myself and lost myself all at once.
My art.The one thing that lets me breathe, that lets me exist on my own terms.I remember the light in the studio, how it spills through the windows and pools on the floor like molten gold.I think of the last time I held a brush, the darkness that crept into my work, the shadows I couldn’t control.Can’t you paint something nice for once, Lila?my mother had asked, her voice tight and polished.Like it was easy, like I could just erase the darkness within me with brighter colors.
The music fades into static and I don’t bother adjusting the dial.The silence that fills the car is steady, meditative, the perfect soundtrack for unraveling, and I embrace it, let it seep into my skin, let it stitch together the places that hurt.
I glance at the passenger seat.My suitcase is small, half-empty, a symbol of the simplicity I’m trying to convince myself I need.Leggings, paint-stained hoodies, oversized tees.The uniform of a girl who doesn’t put too much thought into useless things like impressing strangers.I’ve always been one for comfort over anything else.In the back I have my sketchbooks, extra easels, a jug of turpentine and a case of wine.My fragile preparations for unraveling.
The cabin has always been a refuge, a place I could retreat to when the world was too loud, too bright, too sharp.I picture it as I last saw it, weathered cedar and glass, surrounded by trees and lake and silence.No expectations, no one watching.Just me and the demons I need to face.
I can hear my mother’s voice even now.A ghost of its own, haunting the edges of my mind.It’s still secluded.You’ve been ...not yourself lately.My hands tighten on the wheel.I know exactly who I am, and I’m tired of pretending I’m okay.The words ring hollow, even to me.
The wind shifts, carrying the scent of pine trees and damp earth, a reminder that I’m almost there.Almost where I want to be.Almost where Ineedto be.I let the sensation wrap around me like an old, familiar coat.It smells like freedom.Like isolation.Like solitude.It smells like everything I’ve been craving.
A sign looms ahead, nearly obscured by the encroaching trees.Greyveil Lake, five miles.The letters are faded, peeling, but they’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in weeks.My heart accelerates, a staccato beat of hope and dread and urgency.
****
Ipull up to the lakehouse just past 5:00 and step out of the car.The large structure is defined by glass and weathered wood, and it stands in eerie familiarity, twisted by time.I inhale deeply and turn the key in the lock.
The inside greets me with the antiseptic scent of lemon cleaner and wood polish.My father told the truth.The place is spotless, empty, alive with memories.I move through the space like I’m floating in a dream.My fingers glide over the stone fireplace, the worn leather armchair, the heavy shelf of books.I touch everything, try to bring it back to life after being left alone for so long.
The walls echo with ghosts of summer thunderstorms, with firewood and whispers.I half expect to hear laughter, my own voice, the forgotten sound of happiness.But it’s so quiet I can hear my breath, my heartbeat, the small noise of memories unfolding.
My movements are automatic as I unpack.Clothes in the drawer, neatly folded.Art supplies in the studio, ready to spill open the emotions I’ve been keeping locked tight.Turpentine, brushes, paint tubes lined up like soldiers on a table.I’m imposing order on the chaos.Trying to convince myself I have some control.
The studio is a sunlit room that once cradled my youthful aspirations.It’s haunted by memories of my younger self.Filled with creativity and carefree ambition.It feels like forever since I felt like that.Before I can dwell on the thought, I shove it aside and focus on the task.I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window, a ghost of myself.Pale and tired.I shake my head and look away.
Wine.I need wine.The box I brought has the basics, including a few bottles of my favorites.Tonight I’ll start with just a splash of red.After pouring myself a generous glass of Shiraz, I step onto the deck, letting the cold set in and the quiet wrap around me.The sunset reflects off the lake like molten gold, violent and beautiful.Then I see it.A solitary figure, between two trees.Motionless.Watching.
My breath hitches, and I shake my head.When I blink a second later, it’s gone.A laugh escapes my lips, sharp and disbelieving.“Jesus, Lila.Get a grip.”The sound of my voice echoes in the quiet as I take a big sip.
Paranoia.It has to be.Paranoia ignited by my mother’s fucking voice, by the newness of this complete solitude.The impression of pine and shadow leaves me unsettled, but I shake it off.The wind is a cold hand on my back, pushing me forward, telling me to go back inside.I linger, stubborn in my need to prove I’m not afraid.
The space around me is immense, crushing.I stare out at the water, the trees, the sky, waiting for something to happen.For something to break, for shadows to move toward me like a bad dream but there’s nothing except the soft sound of birds chirping in the evening air and the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze.
The taste of wine and fear is bitter on my tongue.I let the quiet seep into my skin, a slow invasion.
The house looms behind me like a silent giant.I look back toward the trees, and a shiver runs through me, leaving tracks of ice and doubt.
I force myself to speak out loud again, to fill the void, to hold onto sanity.“Stop being an idiot, Lila,” I say, and it sounds different this time.Somehow more desperate.Less real.
Instead of lingering on the deck, I decide to turn around, walk back inside, and let the door close behind me with a soft, final click.
****
The studio feels alivein the night, filled with the pulse of distant sounds.I pace the floor, dragging wine to my lips before rolling my sleeves up.
The canvas is a battlefield, each stroke a desperate attempt to control the chaos.Dark colors bleed into each other, consuming the white space.A house reflected in water, shapes emerging among trees.Abstract claws replacing branches.
Fear seeps into the colors, and the image evolves into something I can’t define.Paranoia threads through the brushstrokes, binding them tighter and tighter.I lose track of time, of space, of myself.There is only the painting, only the blur of shapes that hover just beyond recognition.The uneasy feeling of eyes on me gnaws at the edges, and I fight to capture it, to contain it.
The night closes in, a heavy curtain of shadow and silence.The clock nears midnight, but I don’t care.I keep going, frantic and wild, until all that’s left is my breath and my heartbeat.Until the strokes become a tangle of desperation.Until I can’t see through the blur.
I step back, hands shaking.The incomplete image stares back at me, dark and raw and unyielding.I struggle with what I’ve revealed, with the truths that I’ve painted into the lines.It’s like staring into a mirror and not recognizing the reflection.I don’t want to recognize it.
I clean my brushes with mechanical precision, a ritual to ground myself, to regain control.But my hands are still unsteady as I pour more wine, as I try to swallow the tightness in my chest.The studio presses in on me, the air thick and suffocating.
Eventually, I drag myself to bed, exhaustion pulling at my limbs, at my mind.The sheets are cold and unfamiliar.I close my eyes, willing sleep to take me, but it’s no use.The house creaks around me, every sound amplified.
