Page 78 of Forgotten Comeback
Driving across town, I park and hop out, hitting the lock on my key fob with a little too much force. A woman on a mission, I make my way through the maze of storage units until I reach mine and unlock it, rolling open the door.
My feet falter. I haven’t been in here since Nana’s death, and all the things I’d rather not deal with are trying to bubble to the surface, but I shove them down. I’m mentally hanging on by a thread here as is.
Stepping inside, I walk smack dab into a spider web. “Gah.” Hating the feeling, I knock the web off my arm before grabbing a box of supplies and lugging it out.
“Can I help you with something?” A man calls.
“Thanks, but no. My dad and brothers will be here any minute to help,” I lie, in case this man is another psychopath. I’m learning AC’s full of them.
I hug the box tighter when I make eye contact with him.
So weird.
I’ve never seen gray eyes in my life, and suddenly two men have them. His are missing the unusual gold rings like Gavin’s eyes, though.
Gavin.
My face sours like I’m sucking on a lemon.
The man’s eyes widen. He probably thinks I’m the serial killer. “Alright, then. Have a good day.”
“You too,” I tell him, pausing to make sure he’s gone before returning to my unit. The final boxes are lugged to my car, and I return to Kat’s condo.
Multiple trips are required, but I get my haul upstairs to the guest room. Opening the first box, I unwrap my older works and prop them against the wall, examining them.
It’s not that they’re bad, but they feel foreign. Like I don’t know the woman who painted these happy scenes.
I roll out a plastic tarp to protect the floor before laying out my materials. First off, time to prep my canvas. Grabbing my paintbrush, I get to work. As those dry, I switch over to my sketchbook. My pencil seems to have a mind of its own, and I don’t rein in the stream-of-consciousness-style drawings.
Page after page of sketches flows from my hand.
Opening another box, I grab a pre-prepped canvas and remove the lid on a bottle of red paint. With brush in hand, I begin flinging red droplets.
It’s chaotic and wild and dark, and I haven’t felt this artistically free in a really long time.
Creativity searing through my veins, I move on to the next project, a woman possessed with images needing an outlet.
It must be on my mind from the spiderweb incident earlier, because I find myself sketching a spiderweb. My pencil flows over the paper, and I examine my work. A spider with large human eyes is staring back at me, a ring around each iris.
With an annoyed sound, I go to erase the rings, but they look pretty cool, so I decide to leave them. Opening various acrylics, I mix my palette before dipping my brush.
My phone buzzes, and I grab it from my overalls’ front pocket, turning off the alarm. “Ugh.” I groan.
Making a final swirl of gold, I clean up and get ready for work. “Shouldn’t there be PTO for when a fuckboy you’ve been messing with turns out to be a psychopath?”
Without Bonnie, it’s a sad, one-sided conversation.
Gavin
I sneak to the back door and easily take care of the pin tumbler. The lock pops open, and I enter the condo. Immediately, I feel the lack of Taylor in this space. Makes sense, considering I blew up her house.
Hustling upstairs, I start in the bedroom, lying down on the unmade bed and taking a deep inhale, but the scent on the pillow’s all wrong; no cinnamon.
I hop out of bed and walk across the hall to the guest bedroom, flipping on the light. Crimson-spattered plastic covers the floor, and for a second, I’m wondering if man-eater really lives up to her nickname.
But I spot the paints, brushes, and canvases littering the room. I had no idea Taylor was an artist; she didn’t have a studio at her old house.
The house I destroyed.
