Page 11 of Heathens
“You think this is your fault?” His voice is soft, gentle. His eyes find mine—searching, incredulous. He puts his cigarette out in the ashtray on the coffee table.
I shrug. “We’d had too much to drink. It was my idea to find better seats—my idea to break away from the group. We were both wasted.” He doesn’t say anything. His eyes—so clear and captivating—search my face. “We were an easy catch.”
I will never forgive myself. Never.
“How did you get away?” His voice is so benevolent...
“I stabbed someone.” My voice reverts back to that monotonous timbre. He doesn’t look shocked and appalled, so I continue. “They took us to this abandoned warehouse in the middle of the French countryside. Screaming did nothing. There was no one around. Not a soul. Evelyn was crying—all the girls were—except me. They didn’t feed us, didn’t let us use the restroom. So, I snapped. I attacked one of the guards and used his own knife on him. And I ran. I intended to get help—to notify the police. But by the time someone found me wandering alone on an abandoned road, and by the time I got the local police to the warehouse, they were gone. Evelyn was gone.”
“Jesus, Lilith.” Salem blows out a loud breath of air. “And they never found her?”
Not yet, but I will.
I have to.
I shake my head. “I follow all of the leads. Nothing. The man who took us... I’ll never forget his face.” I don’t say anything about Benedict. It would help no one if Salem knew what I was planning.
Everything in time.
“So, do you want to see the gallery now?”
Things Out of Nightmares
Salem
Present
The photographs are dark, moody, ethereal. Lilith uses mixed media, so some of them are transposed with other images, paintings, and graffiti. One of them—a woman spinning in a white dress—is blurry and colorful, her head replaced by a thin, scratchy black mass. The images are things out of nightmares, but I can’t stop looking at them. Can’t stop studying them, trying to dig deeper into the soul of the person before me. I’m drawn to them; in a way I’ve never been drawn to art before. Maybe because I’m seeing her. Seeing deep down inside of her.
The second one I look at is a black and white image of a man lying on the ground—a vagrant on the streets. Cutouts of letters from magazines or newspapers—spelling out the word MORFRAN—sit above the body, and angel wings are painted with white out on his back. And the third—two naked bodies intertwined on a bed, silhouetted by the sun coming in through the window behind them. It’s vulgar and beautiful and passionate all at once. The title sends chills down my bones.Persephone is Dreaming Again.
“These are incredible,” I say, glancing at the rest of the framed images hanging in the small room off of her living room. “Do you develop them yourself?”
She nods, gesturing to what looks like a closet. The edges of the door are sealed with black foam. “I built one in there. It’s small, but it does the job.” Her hands curl around her abdomen and she winces. “I know they’re not the best photographs out there, but—”
“They’re beautiful,” I interrupt, shaking my head and putting my hands in my pocket. “I want to buy the one with the angel wings. How much is it?”
She gives me a timid smile. “You really don’t have to. I know they’re probably not—not your style,” she starts, stumbling over her words. “They’re a bit...” she trails off and looks away.
“Imaginative?” I offer. Her clear, hazel eyes find mine and her lips part slightly. Something—something about her sends my mind buzzing, splintering and racing, swallowing me whole. The internal battle I feel just being close to her is terrifyingly wonderful.
“I can give you a discount,” she offers, pulling her lower lip into her mouth.
“I’ll pay the full price.”
She nods and reaches up to grab the photograph. “Do you want me to wrap it up for you?” I try and fail to ignore the way her dress clings to her as she twists around...
Lord help me.
“Yes, please. If it’s not too much trouble.”
She waves her hand and makes some sort of unintelligible sound before walking over to the small table underneath the window and pulling out a large roll of brown paper. Diligently, she wraps it, taping the corners and even using a small stamp on the front. When she hands it to me, I notice the swirling words.
L. Damewood
Photography & Art
“How much do I owe you?” I ask, pulling my wallet out. Her eyes meet mine and a glimmer of mischief fills her pupils as she shakes her head no. “I’m going to pay you, whether you tell me how much or not.” She laughs, covering her mouth, and it’s the most divine thing I’ve ever heard. I wish I could pry her hand away and see it.
