Page 4 of To Love a Monster
The box slips from my fingers, landing on the floor with a muted thud.My mind’s made up.I’ll go down to the art store and just get new ones.My belongings lie scattered like careless memories from yesterday.Half unpacked, half abandoned.When I left, I just grabbed the essentials—coats, boots, gloves, sketchbooks, paints.Well, most of my paints.
Outside, the chill greets me like an old companion, biting at my cheeks and threading its way under my jacket.I welcome it ...it stirs something dormant inside.The trek to town is brief, about fifteen minutes if I keep my pace.I decide that this is a morning made for new beginnings.The trees rustle softly in the crisp air as my boots crunch over gravel in a steady, grounding rhythm.There’s no one in sight.No engines, no voices, just me and a pine-lined path curling its way ahead.
I pass by shuttered cafés and bakeries asleep off-season.Even the wind seems to hold its breath, swirling through my hair and caressing exposed skin.Not with malice, but with a raw, honest presence.It’s strange how peaceful it feels, as if the town itself has stepped aside to let me breathe.
I let my shoulders drop as I start to envision the pieces I’ll create when I return, the forms I’ll sculpt with those new blues.Brush strokes that are as layered as wounds, water that devours reflections rather than showing them, and a sky that offers no forgiveness.Here, there’s no pressure.Unlike back home, where my mother’s constant queries about something “more stable” resonate through the walls, and my father’s silent judgments fill every pause, here I’m free to want, to chase, and even to fail on my own terms.
Ahead, the store lurks in the corner of the block like a secret waiting to be discovered.Warm light spills from behind its windows, a soft promise against the hard, frozen edges of the morning.My breath clouds in the cold as I slow down, my hand reaching for the door.Inside lies color, light, solace, the first step toward what I’m meant to reclaim.
The rush of warmth greets me as I cross the threshold, filling my senses with the scents of linseed oil and old wood.
“Lila Montgomery,” Ben calls from the counter, where he sits like always.“Well, you’re a sight.”His voice carries a hint of familiarity.
“Hi, Ben.”I let the words escape like a slow breath.I focus on the pigments lined up against the walls, the paper, the brushes.A jumble of everything I need to fill the space inside me.
Ben stands, his build is lean and easy, his dark eyes framed by soft gray curls that settle on me too heavily.“You back for the season, or just passing through?”
I keep my expression still, my tone light.“Just for the season.I needed a place to paint.The cabin’s quiet and the town isn’t as busy as it is when the tourists pass through.Thought I’d take advantage of the peace and get some work done.”
“Oh, good on ya.Your folks with you?”He doesn’t miss a beat.I know he’s genuinely curious.After all, like most of the people in this town, Ben’s fond of my parents.I remember Dad and Ben spending many summers fishing out on the lake. “Nope.Just me and my paintings.”
Ben nods slowly, like he’s already guessed as much.“So, you’re still painting like a wild thing, eh?”
“Trying,” I admit.“I forgot my blue set.Left it behind like an idiot.I thought about rushing home to grab them but figured it’d be easier to just pop in here and grab some replacements.Not like they’ll go to waste either way.”
He gives a quick nod and points.“Back left aisle.Third shelf down,” Ben says, his voice is easy.
I make my way toward the aisle.My steps echo against the old oak floors and I scan the shelves.Cobalt, indigo, midnight.The colors leap at me.My fingers trace the tubes, handling them like they might bruise, like they could slip through my grasp and vanish. I let my shoulders relax again, the tension loosening in the vibrant, controlled chaos.It feels good to breathe here, to be surrounded by what I love.
And that’s when I see him.He’s standing a few feet down the aisle.I didn’t hear him walk in.
Tall, still, and silent.Wearing a dark jacket and tight jeans that cling to his thighs.He’s ...devastating.But not in that careful, pretty-boy way.No.This man is devastating the way fire is.Slow and consuming.
His black hair is slightly messy like it’s been through his hands too many times.His jaw is sharp, cheekbones high, and his shoulders are thick with muscle.His profile is cruelly perfect, unsmiling and focused.I’ve never seen him in town before, and I wonder if he’s new or just passing through.He shifts slightly, as if he feels my eyes on him.Then he turns to the side and glances at me with the most captivating eyes I’ve ever seen.
Green.But not the soft, leafy kind you can expect to find coloring the trees on a warm summer day.The sharp kind.Like emerald glass under sunlight.The kind that moves straight through you and doesn’t hesitate to cut on the way out.
My breath catches and something in me pulls tight, like a string wound too fast.A warning in my chest I can’t explain.I think, for one second, about speaking to him.But then he turns away and the moment breaks.My heart stops, then stutters back to life.I fumble with the paints, my hands unsure and clumsy.
I turn my back, will him to disappear, to be a figment of my unsettled mind.When I find the courage to look again, the aisle is empty.My breath comes out ragged.
I gather the supplies I need and hurry back to the counter.“Hey, Ben.The guy who was just in here.Is he new to town?”The question is out before I can second-guess myself, and I’m aware of how strained my voice sounds.
Ben looks puzzled, glances at the vacant aisle, then back at me.“What guy?”
I shake my head and wave a hand at him.“Oh, never mind.Thanks for the paint.See ya around, Ben.”I say as I toss a few notes on the counter and head out.
I push through the door and I’m back in the cold, my heart racing slightly, threatening to outrun me.The blues fill the empty spaces in my hands, and I look around the parking lot to see if I can catch a glimpse of the mystery man, but I see nothing.Ben’s car is the only one in sight.
It’s probably just someone passing through and he’s probably far out of town by now.But as I make my way back past the barren sidewalks and through the forest, I can’t help but feel a presence lurking nearby.By the time I reach my front door I’m breathless and the hairs on my neck stand up.But, despite every instinct screaming at me to run, when I turn around, there’s still nobody in sight.
****
Surveillance Log:L.M
Subject: Lila Montgomery
Location: Local art supply store
