Chapter 2

The painter puts brush to canvas, and the poet puts pen to paper. The poet has the easier task, for his pen does not alter his rhyme. ~Robert Brault,

Edward sat at his breakfast table and lifted his coffee mug up to his lips, but his eyes were on the painting still on the easel. Something didn't look right and inspiration was not with him this morning, which was for the best when he was out of paint. Not overly prone to fits, Edward could still be quite grumpy when things weren't working his way.

Grabbing his hemp messenger bag, Edward called himself a cab. After living in the same area for the last five years, Edward had met nearly every taxi driver in the area, so he was a little surprised when the man that pulled up to his apartment building was a stranger.

"You Cullen?" the man asked as Edward slid into the back seat.

"That's right," he replied.

"Where to?"

Edward gave the burly man with the curly hair the address of his favorite supplies shop. They carried everything he used on a regular basis and knew him well. The employees there were the closest thing Edward had to friends and he had even entertained the idea of asking the pretty blonde salesclerk there out, until he discovered that she already had an equally pretty blonde girl of her own.

Looking out through the front window, Edward paid attention to the route his driver was taking. It had been a long time since anyone tried to rip him off by taking a "short cut" but with a new driver, he could never be too careful.

A car swerved in front of the cab and the driver slammed on his breaks and honked his horn, but it didn't matter because traffic came to a screeching halt. Edward shifted in the back seat to get a better view and he could see that there was an accident at the intersection ahead.

"Don't worry about it, I can get us around," the driver stated as he flashed a set of dimples in the rear-view mirror.

The taxi jolted forward and peeled out of traffic into a side alley. They drove up of couple blocks before Edward saw the sign.

"Stop up there," Edward said, pointing to the building.

It was an odd place to have an arts supply store, down a back alley. But Edward knew that meant it was either good enough that everyone already knew where it was, or that it was new and would close in a month. The tattered sign had Edward surmising that it was not a new place. So why hadn't he heard of it before?

"Are you sure? I can get you to your other store," the driver said cautiously.

"That's okay; I want to check this one out. Wait here," Edward answered.

"The meter stays running then." It was a common reply for a cab driver but there was an unusual smile on the driver's face.

"Fine," Edward called as he stepped out of the cab.

If it was possible to be enamored with a building, Edward was, and the character on the outside was nothing compared to what he discovered on the inside. The old wood shelving smelled musty and rich, the windows cracked and fogged; it was perfect.

Edward quickly found the oil paints and was astonished at the selection they had. There were brands he had never tried and until that moment he had thought such a thing impossible. He picked up a few of the items and glanced over the fine print, checking prices and weighing the new options.

"Can I help you?" a tiny voice asked him. He spun around but didn't see anyone. He furrowed his brow and the voice came again, this time with a giggle, "Down here."

Edward looked down and saw a sprite of a woman. She could not have been more than five feet tall and her face was a nearly perfect triangle. She wore a long, flowing skirt that was burnt orange in color and a lavender eyelet blouse. At first Edward thought the colors clashed but with the display of multicolor beads around her neck, it seemed to work.

At Edward's surprised look, the woman laughed. "Is there something I can help you with?" she asked again.

"I ran out of my red but now that I see you have so many choices, I may be in the market to try a few other things as well."

The petite girl stared at Edward, studying him intently and the gaze made him uncomfortable. He waited for her to finish her perusal and was rewarded with a smile.

"I know what you want," she said. "Follow me."

Edward barely had time to answer before she began moving quickly through the store. She went behind the counter and disappeared. Edward thought maybe she was magic but then she popped up again, startling him, and presented him with a box.

"This is what you want." He thought her presumptuous, telling an experienced painter what he wanted without even asking anything about his work.

Edward looked at the box and opened it up. The tubes of paint looked the same as the brand he normally bought but the name and design on them were different. The swirls on the tubes almost seemed to mesmerize him.

"What are these?" he asked.

"These are top of the line oil paints. We are the only place in the country that carries them. They provide very life like colors, so real that people will swear your painting moves."

Edward raised a skeptical eye. He had been sold many false promises before and yet he seemed to be drawn to the box of paints, almost as if they wanted him to take them home. He shook his head of the ridiculous idea but pulled out his credit card to pay for them nonetheless.

The woman rang up the purchase but just as Edward grabbed the box, she put her hand on his wrist. He stopped abruptly and met her eyes, which had turned very serious.

"This is very important. You cannot mix these with other paints. They do not blend with other oils at all. You must promise that when you paint with these, you paint with only these."

Edward liked the idea of encountering someone who may actually be weirder than he was, so with a crooked grin he agreed heartily and headed out of the store.

Edward told the cab driver to take him back home; he had found what he wanted. The bag sat in his lap and he held it tight, he didn't know what provoked the sudden protection of the new paints but he couldn't help wonder if this was the way Gollum had felt at the beginning with the ring.

When he was safe back in his apartment, Edward relaxed a little. He cleared his old paints from their table and placed the new ones down. He looked again at the partial painting on the easel and tried to pull from his muse. He mixed the paint on the palette and then looked up at the picture.

Bringing his brush close to the canvas, Edward felt a wave of nausea roll over him. He put the brush back on the stand and clutched at his stomach but the moment the brush was out of his hand, the wave was gone. It was only then he remembered the words of the strange lady at the paint shop. He was not supposed to mix these paints with others.

"Well fuck," he said to himself. He had not bought any other paints, so this painting would have to wait again until morning.

He cleaned his equipment and grabbed a book. Sitting down in his papasan chair, Edward got lost in the world of John Grisham; even he wasn't above a little low brow entertainment.

It wasn't until Edward's stomach grumbled that he realized he had been reading for nearly five hours. He went to his fridge to find something to eat but his supplies were lacking. Finding a box of pasta and a bottle of Ragu, Edward got started on making his favorite bachelor dish.

Edward sat in the comfortable quiet of his apartment and ate his dinner. He'd had many family members and friends ask if he was lonely. The thought had never occurred to Edward; he found the thoughts in his head were enough to amuse him mostly. It wasn't being conceited, he just liked to think.

Later that evening, when Edward made his way to the bed, he couldn't help but stop at the paints. He ran his hand over the top of the box, the sensation of his fingers on the wood made his body shiver and excited him in a way very different than the way paints usually appealed to him.

Crawling into bed, Edward's confusion over why the paints had elated him so was enough to dull said excitement. The last thing he remembered before he drifted to sleep was the scent of freesia.

Edward found himself on a ship at sea. He had never been on a boat before but the way it was pitching under him made him certain that something was wrong. A gush of water came over the side of the teetering ship and pushed him against the side rail.

As his eyes gazed out over the horizon he heard music—no not music, singing. He searched through the waves frantically, wondering who would be able to survive on the harsh waters, much less sing on them.

He saw her hair first, flying up in a tempest of its own. As he fought to see her more clearly, the waves receded, the boat stopped rocking, and a giant rock came into view.

Edward almost expected her to be a mermaid, calling him with her siren song, but instead all he saw was a small girl sitting on a rock in the middle of the ocean. She tilted her head when she looked at him, and Edward was able to finally study the face he had chased through two dreams.

She wore a simple white dress that was impossibly dry after sitting through the storm. Her face was narrow and feminine, with crooked lips and large eyes. He studied her like a painter, taking in the negative and positive space more than her actual appearance. But if you were to ask him, he wouldn't be able to deny he noticed her beauty.

Edward only knew one thing; he had to get to her. He jumped overboard and swam furiously toward the girl. When he arrived at the rock, he looked up at her and she gave him a small smile. Reaching down, she extended her hand out to him and he took it eagerly. As she helped him up he was pulled into view of her neck and he saw there the emerald necklace.

His eyes flashed up to her face and she suddenly looked panicked.

"Save me," she whispered as her body disintegrated and blew away on the breeze.