Page 8 of To Love a Monster
—N
Chapter Four
Lila
Iwake up with a headachethat’s thick and heavy.There’s paint on my fingers, shirt, collarbone, and my thighs.The kind of mess I only make when something inside me claws to be released and won’t stop until it’s out.But I don’t remember painting last night.I remember the couch, I remember having another glass of wine, and another.Then ...nothing.
I must’ve dragged myself to the studio.That’s how it looks.Everything smeared, spilling from one room to the next.Pigments bleeding into each other on the walls, the floors, my skin.The carpet beneath me feels bruised with paint and sticky.A stain that won’t come out.I sit up, brush a stiff, stained curl from my eyes.
Everything aches and my hands won’t stop shaking.I don’t remember anything after the wine.Nothing except the grip of that thought, the one that’s taken root and spread like mold through my body.I swore I wouldn’t go back to the studio and paint when I was filled with wine.The only thing that does is end up revealing my deepest thoughts, thoughts sober me doesn’t always enjoy looking at the day after.I touch my face, my neck, and realize I did exactly that.I groan when I discover that I’m covered in paint—shades of dark grays, blue and violet.
The paint on my collarbone shimmers like a fresh bruise.The damp fabric of my shirt clings to my skin.The kind of mess that screams for a new canvas.For a release.The kind of mess that makes me feel helpless and alive and so fucking scared of myself that I want to claw it all away.But I can’t remember doing it.My heart won’t slow down.
I stand, knees weak, the room spinning in a wild blur.I walk toward the studio, my fingers twitching and fists tight.Each step is heavy with dread.I want to freeze time before I see it, whatever truth is waiting on the other side of this mess.
The walls in the hallway have small smears of paint.Why didn’t I clean up?I hate the feeling of waking up and not knowing what happened during certain parts of the night before, of not being in control.I push through the door and my heart sinks.The mess in the studio is worse than I thought.Colors tangled, raw and furious, fighting for space.
My breath catches, and I walk to the easel.My eyes won’t focus at first but when they do, the painting staring back at me showshim.The man in the trees.Cloaked in shadows.Hood drawn.Half his face hidden, the other eerily clear.
I freeze.I don’t remember touching the canvas, but the paint is mine.And his lips, that jawline ...it causes a shiver to move through me.
The brushstrokes are fast and angry.His eyes aren’t visible, but I still feel them.Watching.Waiting.My hand moves to the canvas edge like it might bite.
I trace the lines, the shape of his jaw.Each stroke sharp and wild and desperate.I stumble back, breath catching in my chest.This man.This painting.It sits here like a goddamn confession.
Why did I paint him?And why can’t I look away?The questions bleed into one another until the fear is almost as heavy as the wine haze that still clings to the back of my skull.I grab an old white sheet from the rack and toss it over the canvas.I can’t look at it anymore.Not right now.
I want to say I imagined him.That he’s not real.But deep down I know.I know I didn’t imagine any of it.And if I didn’t, if he’s out there, closer than I’ve let myself believe, then what the hell does that mean?
I shuffle into the bathroom, still in yesterday’s oversized shirt and nothing else.My feet are cold against the tile.I splash cold water on my face, but something stops me.The lotion.It’s on the left side of the sink.But I always leave it on the right.Next to the mirror.Lined up with my toothbrush.My routine is precise, even when I’m drunk.And I remember using it last night, before I even started drinking wine.
I stare at it, heart thumping.Why would I move it?I wouldn’t.Not after I was already halfway to blacked out.I glance around.Check the closet.Behind the door.Inside the cabinet.Everything looks normal.But I feel wrong.It’s like walking into a space where someone just left.The air still disturbed, the silence a little too stretched.
At first, the bathroom looks exactly as it was when I left it.The towels are straight, the mirror is clean, and my toothbrush stares at me from its usual place.I want to think I’m overreacting.I want to think it’s nothing.But my head still feels like static and wine, and my skin is stained in shades of panic I can’t wash away.
My mother’s voice fills my head.Accusing.Dismissive.You’re being dramatic, Lila.You always were.But the more I stare, the more the room looks rearranged.
