Page 144 of Misery
"Even though he watched you for months like some creep?"
I make the decision right here, right now. "Yeah, I am."
She shakes her head, curls bouncing. "I don't understand it."
"Neither do I, completely. But he makes me feel safe. Even knowing what he did, he makes me feel protected."
"That's probably Stockholm syndrome."
"Probably. But it's my syndrome to have."
"That's fucked up."
"Everything about my life is fucked up. At least this is fucked up in a way I'm choosing."
The front door opens.
Oskar comes in carrying shopping bags, expensive ones from the art store downtown that I never shop at because a single brush costs sixty dollars and I'd rather pay rent.
He has a few bags, weighing down both his arms.
"Hey," he says, then notices Helle. "Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt."
"I was just leaving." Helle stands, hugs me tight. I can feel her ribs through the sweatshirt. She's lost weight. "Remember what I asked?"
"I remember."
"Love you."
"Love you too."
She goes, that shitty Honda engine complaining all the way down the drive.
Oskar sets the bags down carefully, like they contain something precious.
"I bought you some things."
"I can see that." I peer into the bags, pull out items one by one.
Professional-grade brushes that feel like silk between my fingers.
Tubes of paint that cost more than most people spend on groceries—real cadmium red, cobalt blue, colors that are actual minerals, not synthetic approximations.
Canvases already stretched and primed with gesso so smooth it's like glass. "This must have cost a fortune."
"You needed new supplies. Fresh start with fresh tools."
"Why new? You could have gotten my stuff from the apartment."
"No. You need a fresh start. Hell, we need a fresh start."
Fresh start.
Like it's that simple.
Like expensive paint can erase months of violation.
But he's trying, and the brushes are beautiful.
