Chapter one:
Erik
The autumn days in the north were just the kisses of winter. The air was chilled and the skies gray. I adore autumn, though; it is nature's best season. The world has been turned into a cornucopia of color. I spend hours at a time, sketching and painting what I see from my balcony at home and on campus. When winter comes, I wait for the first snow and than spend the day painting and drawing. If I have my classes on that day, I exempt myself from them. Art knows no boundaries and I will not hold it back by those set before me by the college.
My days in the community college were spent in the music rooms or any of the art rooms that happened to be empty. The solitude of it all is comforting for me and for the others that attend the college. Even in this day and age people cannot accept that I wear a mask to cover my wounds. I take it unto myself to rid myself from their sight by having my spare time and my classes in as much privacy as possible. If teachers refuse for private classes, I offer to pay them extra. I've never once been turned away.
"Beautiful, Erik!" Mrs. Marrin said. She placed a hand on my shoulder as she looked at the canvas before me. I glanced at her hand, wishing she would pull away, but said nothing. The unwanted contact was brought by the praise of my simple painting, so I didn't mind. The painting was of a small flock of geese that frequented the campus. They were easy subjects as they slowly swam in the stream. I enjoyed them as subjects and always caught them in interesting posses.
"You never cease to amaze me." Mrs. Marrin added.
I looked at her and gave a faint smile. The masks I wore covered the upper part of my face, leaving the bottom of my nose and my mouth exposed, as well as parts of my cheeks. "Thank you." I replied. I put my paintbrush to my mouth and looked at the geese. "It could be better though. The damned things were squawking at each other and fighting. It was hard to have it done in this pose."
Mrs. Marrin shook her head. "Nonsense, Erik! You've done beautifully. It's like looking at one of your photographs." She turned and walked to her table. She rummaged through her briefcase before returning her gaze to me. "Are you comfortable with painting humans, Erik, or do you prefer animals?"
I shrugged. "I can do either. Why?"
"Well, I was wondering if you would do some sketches of people on campus." Mrs. Marrin explained. She pulled out a small stack of papers for her next class. She smiled at me and I forced myself to return the gesture. "All I'd like you to do is just sit somewhere and sketch people. It would be nice if you could get some people to pose, but I will let you decide on that. The sketches don't have to be exact. I want your imagination to take full control."
Mrs. Marrin approached me slowly as she pulled back her sandy blonde hair. She smiled once more at me. Age held nothing to her; she barely looked thirty five, but she was well past that age. "If you see someone as a devil, draw them like that. If you envision them looking off into the distance as they are drifting down the French Riviera, than you may do that. I want you to do what you like."
I looked at the painting of the geese and smiled despite myself, feeling my eyes light up with my joy. This was something I could do. Yes, I love to paint what I am told, but I rarely let myself have complete freedom with what I did. The students on campus were interesting and I always wished to give them different guises.
"I can draw them any way I wish?" I breathed, somewhat unsure of what was happening.
"Of course, Erik!" Mrs. Marrin replied with a smile. She patted my shoulder happily and once more I didn't shy to the touch. I looked up at her as if I was a child, amazed by a strange spectacle before me. "You can go as far as painting which ever you choose. I would like to enter some of your work into an amateur's gallery at the museum, if that is all right."
I nodded, somewhat baffled by what she was telling me. I prided myself in every art I've done, but never imagined my artwork as nothing more than a simple hobby. By the way Mrs. Marrin spoke, I could tell she held my art in the highest regard. It was rare to see an art student, self- taught in everything he does, to be displayed amongst famed paintings and sculptures.
When I was dismissed from my short class I wandered up the two flights of stairs to the dinning area of the building. The art class I took was beneath the Student Center, which housed offices, classes, and the dinning hall. By midday the area would be filled with people, commencing with stories of their boring classes and of the recent weekend. They sat at tables, suited for four, but holding twice as much when wanted. The smell of pizza lingered in the air, thanks to the local pizza shop having a small branch on the school's campus.
I took refuge in a corner of the dinning hall, having the table to myself. My bag was beside me and I had my art supplies before me. People only glanced at me once, my eyes meeting their own with a harsh glare. My mask was also a source of their soft-spoken fear, leaving me be as I watched and sketched them for hours at a time. I would take a moment in time and place it on the paper before me, placing them from the small tables at a Paris café to the cauldron of Macbeth's Weird Sisters. I did what ever seemed to strike my fancy at that moment.
Time soon slipped away and I noticed that it was nearly two o'clock. My mother expected me home in thirty minutes, but my muse had just appeared through the doors before me. As I raised my eyes from my sketchpad, I saw what could only be described as breath taking. A young woman, no older than myself, seemed to come from the heavens above. Her curled, brown hair hung half way down the simple curve of her back, laced with blue silken ribbons. The girl's soft emerald eyes seemed to glisten even in the dim light around us, studying every aspect of the room. She wore a pair of black pants and a gray and black sweatshirt, which was hidden for she held a book over her chest as if it was protecting her.
As if I was possessed by demon, I went to work. Never in my life had inspiration struck me as fast as this. In moments the nameless girl was staring at me from the paper I held; her eyes seemed to sparkle and her lips curved in the beautiful smile I knew she held. Some how I even captured the way strands of her hair seemed to fall into her face, giving her the look of a child or a faerie I would imagine lived in the realms that a rare few could see.
I put my charcoal pencil into its case and let it drop onto my closed sketchbook. I raised my eyes to find my unnamed beauty, only to find her sitting across the room and her eyes looking at me in soft wonder. Her cheeks grew pink as our eyes met and I felt my heart shudder as a shy smile crossed her perfect face. I returned the smile and raised my hand in a short wave. Once more her cheeks grew pink and she turned her eyes away. This girl, the epitome of perfect womanhood, glanced at me once more before opening her book and forced herself to read.
Slowly I gathered my things, keeping an eye on the unnamed beauty before me. She would watch me from the edge of her book, thinking I could not see her. I began to wonder if she was curious enough to follow me. I took delight in the thought that she would. If she did, I could find out her name and more about her. Perhaps this would be a way to paint her in her full potential and beauty. On the other hand, though, her interest in me could be because of my mask, the ever-present reminder that I had no friendship with a single person my age.
With my art supplies in hand I began to retrace my step to the art rooms below. There was room that I used to house my artwork. It was gift from Mrs. Marrin; a room to keep my work safe from home and the other students. That room and the music chamber was my only sanctuary on campus. I fled to those rooms when I felt the need to leave behind the world. There I could be in silence and focus my energy on my work, relieving myself of any emotion which began to present itself.
As I walked down the empty hall I could hear the soft footfalls of someone who wished to follow. I smiled to myself, somehow knowing that the person behind me was my unknown faerie. I reached into my pocket, producing the key chain I kept with me, holding the keys to my car, home, and to the rooms of the art department. With a coy smile I quickened my step and listened as the footsteps slowly quickened as well.
With the bend of the hall I dashed down the empty corridor. My mouth was wide with a gleeful smile; my heart was racing, as was my mind with the possibilities of what could happen. A friendship, a kindred spirit of sorts, or, if there happens to be a way, a deeper relationship with this girl. My love for people was stricken by what my father had done and the lack of love from my mother. I steered away from the human contact and love was something that not even my mother could explain to me. Love was as alien to me.
I unlocked the doors to the art room and slipped in, leaving the door wide open. I flipped on the light and threw my supplies onto one of the tables. Slowly I moved through the maze of canvases and nameless faces watching me. Birds flying across the skies and sleeping on the bay of a forgotten lake graced the walls, waiting to be taken home or sold for the sole purpose to create another.
My time in the room would be short and I knew this as I walked into the back to retrieve my jacket. My mother was strict when it came to my punctuality. She didn't want me out in public, for fear I would be traced to her. She was finally finding herself and looking for a new man to connect with. My presence in her world and the fear I may be seen made her weary of me. She has screamed at me and wished me dead. Only once have I hit her, but it was in self-defense. My own mother, in a fit of rage and drunk from a sudden binge, came at me with a butcher knife. With one simple move she was on the ground, crying. She cringes every time I come near enough to touch her.
"Oh my God."
The soft voice reached my ears and I felt those memories of my mother slip away. I slipped my jacket on and listened to soft footfalls and the gasps from my guest. A smile crossed my face as she whispered to herself on the beauty of a painting. I closed me eyes, wishing I could be beside her, telling her about my paintings. The thought of her looking at me, smiling with approval seemed all too strange for me. This strange beauty was no one to me, yet I wished nothing more than for her approval and the simplicity of her smile to be for me.
Running a hand through me hair and letting my nerves calm I took a step out of the office. Just as I had guessed my guest was my unnamed beauty. She no longer had her book, which was placed near my art supplies, and hands freely moved about. Her slender fingers barely touched the finished painting, outlining the simple creatures I had captured in a moment of purity. Her eyes looked at my work with wonder and absolute adoration, which sent surge of joy through me.
"I have more paintings you could look at, if you like." I said softly.
The girl jumped with surprise. She spun around quickly, her hair dancing around her face. Her cheeks grew a soft rose color and her eyes widened with embarrassment. She turned her eyes away form me and bit her lip, unable to make any type of response. I smiled softly and studied her closely. As I had imagined she was flawless. It was as if she was sculpted from marble and life was breathed into her, letting her live.
"I'm sorry." she whispered, her voice ringing like a bell in my ear. My heart seemed to shudder, as did the core of my soul, as those words echoed in my mind.
I smiled. "You have no reason to be. I'm just wondering why you followed me."
The girl's face quickly grew red and she turned away from me. I felt a sudden wave of anger towards myself. She was a delicate creature and I wasn't doing much to keep her comfort in my presence. I cleared my throat and she instinctively turned to look at me. Our eyes me and I felt my heart skip a beat once more. Words escaped me for a moment and I wished I could capture her simple expression in a painting.
"I didn't think you'd be in here." she said, finally finding her voice. Her eyes studied me for a moment. "When I came around the hall, I saw the door open. No one was here when I looked in. I thought you went into another room, so I decided to look at your paintings. I'm sorry that I was touching them. Hopefully none of them are ruined."
A soft smile crossed my face. "It's okay. My paintings have been through a lot worse than being touched, even as delicate as you have." Slowly I took a few steps towards her. She took a step back, keeping a distance between us. "But you still didn't answer my question."
"Oh!" she said. A soft, nervous laugh escaped her and I felt my soul stir with the very sound. She looked at me bashfully. "I noticed that you were drawing people when I was walking around. When I walked into the room I got the feeling that you were drawing me." Her fingers slowly began to fiddle with the soft curls of her hair nervously. Her emerald eyes locked onto mine for a moment, before looking away. "I just wanted to see the picture you drew of me."
"Really?" I asked, somewhat surprised by the source of her curiosity. I moved past her quickly and took hold of my sketchbook. I flipped through the pages until I got to my sketch of her. For a moment I paused, wondering if I should hand it over and let her view the unfinished work. With a sigh I held it out to her; I was going out on a limb. "Here you go."
Without a word she took the sketchbook and nervously looked over her portrait. Her eyes widened and she smiled. Her eyes turned to mine once more and this time she didn't turn them away. "You're really talented. This is beautiful. I don't think this looks a thing like me. I'm not as elegant as you drew me."
I looked into her eyes, nearly losing myself in them. "I sketched what I saw." I breathed, unaware of what I had just said.
With a blushed face she looked over the sketch again. "My name is Christine." she said, slowly turning her eyes to me.
"I'm Erik." I replied with a smile, overjoyed with the fact I now knew this angel's name. "It's nice to meet you."
Christine smiled bashfully and handed my sketchbook to me. "Well, I need to get to my next class. I'm sorry if I interrupted anything." As she said this she quickly grabbed her book and seemed to grow self- conscious before my eyes. "It was nice to meet you.
"I was wondering, Christine," I said, causing her to stop as she took a few steps towards the door. "if you would be a model for a few of my paintings."
For a moment Christine stared at me in a state of shock. I had the sinking feeling she would turn my offer down, being approached by a stranger out of no where and one with a mask covering half of his face. I can frighten most people when I look at them just right.
"I. . . Are you sure you want me as a model?" Christine finally said her voice full of nervousness. I couldn't find an answer to the question. I wanted to tell her that I couldn't go a day without finishing at least one painting of her. She lowered her eyes seeming to find her thoughts. "Where would you have the sessions?"
"It would be in one of the art rooms here." I replied. A sigh of relief escaped Christine, and I couldn't blame her for that. These days you can't trust many people. It must've been frightening to have me, a strange masked man, ask her to be a model.
Silence surrounded us. I watched Christine for a moment. Every simple movement she made was enticing. The way she looked at me and the way her eyes scanned over my paintings. She was a frightened creature, but she had the regal beauty that lacked words.
"So, will you be a model for a few of my paintings?" I asked, my soft voice breaking through the silence.
Christine's eyes slowly locked onto mine. They shook for a moment and than a soft smile graced her face. "I'd love to!"
I couldn't help but return Christine's bright smile. Her smile widened slightly and her cheeks grew a soft pink color. Our eyes never left the others and, for a moment, I felt like we connected on some level, some how.
"Why don't we start tomorrow? We can meet in here. Is around eleven okay for you?" I asked, my smile never fading and my eyes never leaving hers.
Christine lowered her eyes bashfully, keeping her smile, and nodded. "That sounds great!" She smiled happily and looked at me. "Is there anything specific that I need to bring or wear?"
I shook my head. "Just come in what ever you want. If it comes to it, I will instruct you."
"Okay. So, I'll see you tomorrow?" Christine asked, slowly taking a few steps backwards. I nodded with a smile, which made her eyes glitter with joy. She smiled and gave a short wave of her fingers as she clutched her book to her body. "Bye."
I watched as she disappeared from the room and from my view. My heart fluttered in my chest as I felt a wave of feelings I had never felt before. I've read books upon books, enough to fill a library, and none have come close to the sonnet and symphony I was creating in my mind about this simple feeling. As a child I was given anything and everything I wanted. Now, though, I was receiving something I didn't receive when I needed it; a sense of love and longing.
Holding these simple feelings in my heart I looked once more at my sketch of Christine. Her warm eyes stared at me, with the soft smile gracing the simple beauty she held. I traced the image with a finger and smiled to myself. Closing the book and gathering my things I left the room, turning off the lights and locking the door. I had to get home; mother wouldn't be happy if I was late.
**********
It was half past three when I walked through the front doors of my mother's home. The grand, two story Victorian replica smelt of cooking bread and vanilla from a few of the lighted candles. The smell was welcoming, but the sounds from the distant kitchen made my once joyful mood bitter. I could hear my mother cooing and laughing into the phone as she spoke with one of her newest love interests. One would think a woman of strict Catholic values wouldn't be such a whore.
I shrugged off my jacket and hung it upon the empty coat rack, placing my sketchbook and supplies on a small end table. Slowly I moved, silent as a cat and as vicious as a feline on the prowl. I inched closer to the kitchen, my ears slowly taking in every sickening word of my mother's breath. This man, a doctor by the name of Peter King, she spoke to didn't know I existed. She brought him home once, thinking I was asleep or working on a piece of art, but I sat at the top of the stairs, half in tears and in a fit of rage as I listened to answer this man's questions, denying that I existed.
"No, it's no problem, Pete!" my mother giggled. "Besides, I have something perfect I can make. I hope you like duck! That's good! I have a perfect recipe for it."
Duck! It was a rare delicacy in our family, despite the money we had in our grasp. Now, though, she was speaking as if it was eaten everyday within these hollowed walls. I frowned and cursed beneath my breath as she went on about the dinner she would prepare. What of me, though? What was I to do? More than likely I would be banished to my room at the end of the upstairs hall, or paid to go out and do something to entertain myself until past midnight.
I turned away and, in my cat like grace and silence, I moved to the stairs, grabbing my sketchbook as I moved past it. With a glance towards the kitchen door and my mother's shadow, I made my way up the staircase. The stairs creaked softly beneath my weight as I hurried up the last few steps. I knew my mother heard the soft sounds for her conversation became hushed and the giggling softened.
The hall opened before, expanding on both sides to an array of open and closed door. The air was chilled and the lights turned off, leaving an eerie feeling in the air, despite the time of day. Few pictures graced the walls of our home and only pictures of my early years were allowed to be hung. In my room, though, I kept all the pictures my mother tried to hide or throw away. All of the pictures of my father were hidden in my room. Yes, I despise him for what he has done and put me through, but there are times I wished to see him. I knew for a fact, though, that he lived in this city or in a neighboring one and I had a longing to contact him.
I moved down the opposite wing of the hall, straying from my room. I was in the mood to compose something. There was a song playing within my mind, pulling at my fingers. Silently I moved past the empty walls and towards the open door to my own little studio. I could see my paintings and my piles of unfinished symphonies. The end of my grand piano was barely seen and the stand for my violin's music was leaning against the wall. All of this, all my work, was given to me by my father, who saw it fit to have me express myself in the arts, a way which he wanted to but his destiny was too far.
"Erik, is that you?" My mother's voice seemed to slither and come from the darkness around me.
"Yes, mother." I replied, coming to a stop. I lowered my head and closed me eyes, listening to her soft breath and whispers from the bottom of the stairs.
"You're late." she said with a bitter tone. "Didn't I tell you to come straight home when you were done with you're classes?"
I slowly opened my eyes and let out a soft sigh. "Yes, mother, and I'm sorry. My instructor, Mrs. Marrin, wanted me to sketch some students around campus. I lost track of time."
There was a moment of silence, in which I hoped she disappeared back to the kitchen to finish her conversation with Peter. To my dismay, she had crept up the stairs and was standing at the mouth of the staircase, her shadow hovering near my own. Slowly I turned to face her, standing straight, with my head held high, just as she always instructed me. A trace of a smile crossed her lips, but a twinkle of fear danced within those eyes I found much dislike in.
"You must've sketched quite a few people." my mother said. She crossed her arms over her chest and looked me in the eye. For a minute I felt inferior, much like I did when I was younger. "May I see what you have drawn?"
"No, you may not" I growled, my eyes growing with anger as I met her gaze.
My mother flinched. "And why not?"
I narrowed my eyes and turned away from her sharply. "You never took interest in my sketches before, why should you now?" I moved quickly into my studio and paused. I glanced over my shoulder and looked at my mother. "I suppose I'll be going out tonight, since dear Mr. King will be paying you a visit. Be sure to keep your hands off each other. It's sickening to know that my 'righteous' mother is teaching me abstinence while she isn't practicing it herself."
With that I slammed the door to my studio, blocking her shocked expression from my eyes.
The autumn days in the north were just the kisses of winter. The air was chilled and the skies gray. I adore autumn, though; it is nature's best season. The world has been turned into a cornucopia of color. I spend hours at a time, sketching and painting what I see from my balcony at home and on campus. When winter comes, I wait for the first snow and than spend the day painting and drawing. If I have my classes on that day, I exempt myself from them. Art knows no boundaries and I will not hold it back by those set before me by the college.
My days in the community college were spent in the music rooms or any of the art rooms that happened to be empty. The solitude of it all is comforting for me and for the others that attend the college. Even in this day and age people cannot accept that I wear a mask to cover my wounds. I take it unto myself to rid myself from their sight by having my spare time and my classes in as much privacy as possible. If teachers refuse for private classes, I offer to pay them extra. I've never once been turned away.
"Beautiful, Erik!" Mrs. Marrin said. She placed a hand on my shoulder as she looked at the canvas before me. I glanced at her hand, wishing she would pull away, but said nothing. The unwanted contact was brought by the praise of my simple painting, so I didn't mind. The painting was of a small flock of geese that frequented the campus. They were easy subjects as they slowly swam in the stream. I enjoyed them as subjects and always caught them in interesting posses.
"You never cease to amaze me." Mrs. Marrin added.
I looked at her and gave a faint smile. The masks I wore covered the upper part of my face, leaving the bottom of my nose and my mouth exposed, as well as parts of my cheeks. "Thank you." I replied. I put my paintbrush to my mouth and looked at the geese. "It could be better though. The damned things were squawking at each other and fighting. It was hard to have it done in this pose."
Mrs. Marrin shook her head. "Nonsense, Erik! You've done beautifully. It's like looking at one of your photographs." She turned and walked to her table. She rummaged through her briefcase before returning her gaze to me. "Are you comfortable with painting humans, Erik, or do you prefer animals?"
I shrugged. "I can do either. Why?"
"Well, I was wondering if you would do some sketches of people on campus." Mrs. Marrin explained. She pulled out a small stack of papers for her next class. She smiled at me and I forced myself to return the gesture. "All I'd like you to do is just sit somewhere and sketch people. It would be nice if you could get some people to pose, but I will let you decide on that. The sketches don't have to be exact. I want your imagination to take full control."
Mrs. Marrin approached me slowly as she pulled back her sandy blonde hair. She smiled once more at me. Age held nothing to her; she barely looked thirty five, but she was well past that age. "If you see someone as a devil, draw them like that. If you envision them looking off into the distance as they are drifting down the French Riviera, than you may do that. I want you to do what you like."
I looked at the painting of the geese and smiled despite myself, feeling my eyes light up with my joy. This was something I could do. Yes, I love to paint what I am told, but I rarely let myself have complete freedom with what I did. The students on campus were interesting and I always wished to give them different guises.
"I can draw them any way I wish?" I breathed, somewhat unsure of what was happening.
"Of course, Erik!" Mrs. Marrin replied with a smile. She patted my shoulder happily and once more I didn't shy to the touch. I looked up at her as if I was a child, amazed by a strange spectacle before me. "You can go as far as painting which ever you choose. I would like to enter some of your work into an amateur's gallery at the museum, if that is all right."
I nodded, somewhat baffled by what she was telling me. I prided myself in every art I've done, but never imagined my artwork as nothing more than a simple hobby. By the way Mrs. Marrin spoke, I could tell she held my art in the highest regard. It was rare to see an art student, self- taught in everything he does, to be displayed amongst famed paintings and sculptures.
When I was dismissed from my short class I wandered up the two flights of stairs to the dinning area of the building. The art class I took was beneath the Student Center, which housed offices, classes, and the dinning hall. By midday the area would be filled with people, commencing with stories of their boring classes and of the recent weekend. They sat at tables, suited for four, but holding twice as much when wanted. The smell of pizza lingered in the air, thanks to the local pizza shop having a small branch on the school's campus.
I took refuge in a corner of the dinning hall, having the table to myself. My bag was beside me and I had my art supplies before me. People only glanced at me once, my eyes meeting their own with a harsh glare. My mask was also a source of their soft-spoken fear, leaving me be as I watched and sketched them for hours at a time. I would take a moment in time and place it on the paper before me, placing them from the small tables at a Paris café to the cauldron of Macbeth's Weird Sisters. I did what ever seemed to strike my fancy at that moment.
Time soon slipped away and I noticed that it was nearly two o'clock. My mother expected me home in thirty minutes, but my muse had just appeared through the doors before me. As I raised my eyes from my sketchpad, I saw what could only be described as breath taking. A young woman, no older than myself, seemed to come from the heavens above. Her curled, brown hair hung half way down the simple curve of her back, laced with blue silken ribbons. The girl's soft emerald eyes seemed to glisten even in the dim light around us, studying every aspect of the room. She wore a pair of black pants and a gray and black sweatshirt, which was hidden for she held a book over her chest as if it was protecting her.
As if I was possessed by demon, I went to work. Never in my life had inspiration struck me as fast as this. In moments the nameless girl was staring at me from the paper I held; her eyes seemed to sparkle and her lips curved in the beautiful smile I knew she held. Some how I even captured the way strands of her hair seemed to fall into her face, giving her the look of a child or a faerie I would imagine lived in the realms that a rare few could see.
I put my charcoal pencil into its case and let it drop onto my closed sketchbook. I raised my eyes to find my unnamed beauty, only to find her sitting across the room and her eyes looking at me in soft wonder. Her cheeks grew pink as our eyes met and I felt my heart shudder as a shy smile crossed her perfect face. I returned the smile and raised my hand in a short wave. Once more her cheeks grew pink and she turned her eyes away. This girl, the epitome of perfect womanhood, glanced at me once more before opening her book and forced herself to read.
Slowly I gathered my things, keeping an eye on the unnamed beauty before me. She would watch me from the edge of her book, thinking I could not see her. I began to wonder if she was curious enough to follow me. I took delight in the thought that she would. If she did, I could find out her name and more about her. Perhaps this would be a way to paint her in her full potential and beauty. On the other hand, though, her interest in me could be because of my mask, the ever-present reminder that I had no friendship with a single person my age.
With my art supplies in hand I began to retrace my step to the art rooms below. There was room that I used to house my artwork. It was gift from Mrs. Marrin; a room to keep my work safe from home and the other students. That room and the music chamber was my only sanctuary on campus. I fled to those rooms when I felt the need to leave behind the world. There I could be in silence and focus my energy on my work, relieving myself of any emotion which began to present itself.
As I walked down the empty hall I could hear the soft footfalls of someone who wished to follow. I smiled to myself, somehow knowing that the person behind me was my unknown faerie. I reached into my pocket, producing the key chain I kept with me, holding the keys to my car, home, and to the rooms of the art department. With a coy smile I quickened my step and listened as the footsteps slowly quickened as well.
With the bend of the hall I dashed down the empty corridor. My mouth was wide with a gleeful smile; my heart was racing, as was my mind with the possibilities of what could happen. A friendship, a kindred spirit of sorts, or, if there happens to be a way, a deeper relationship with this girl. My love for people was stricken by what my father had done and the lack of love from my mother. I steered away from the human contact and love was something that not even my mother could explain to me. Love was as alien to me.
I unlocked the doors to the art room and slipped in, leaving the door wide open. I flipped on the light and threw my supplies onto one of the tables. Slowly I moved through the maze of canvases and nameless faces watching me. Birds flying across the skies and sleeping on the bay of a forgotten lake graced the walls, waiting to be taken home or sold for the sole purpose to create another.
My time in the room would be short and I knew this as I walked into the back to retrieve my jacket. My mother was strict when it came to my punctuality. She didn't want me out in public, for fear I would be traced to her. She was finally finding herself and looking for a new man to connect with. My presence in her world and the fear I may be seen made her weary of me. She has screamed at me and wished me dead. Only once have I hit her, but it was in self-defense. My own mother, in a fit of rage and drunk from a sudden binge, came at me with a butcher knife. With one simple move she was on the ground, crying. She cringes every time I come near enough to touch her.
"Oh my God."
The soft voice reached my ears and I felt those memories of my mother slip away. I slipped my jacket on and listened to soft footfalls and the gasps from my guest. A smile crossed my face as she whispered to herself on the beauty of a painting. I closed me eyes, wishing I could be beside her, telling her about my paintings. The thought of her looking at me, smiling with approval seemed all too strange for me. This strange beauty was no one to me, yet I wished nothing more than for her approval and the simplicity of her smile to be for me.
Running a hand through me hair and letting my nerves calm I took a step out of the office. Just as I had guessed my guest was my unnamed beauty. She no longer had her book, which was placed near my art supplies, and hands freely moved about. Her slender fingers barely touched the finished painting, outlining the simple creatures I had captured in a moment of purity. Her eyes looked at my work with wonder and absolute adoration, which sent surge of joy through me.
"I have more paintings you could look at, if you like." I said softly.
The girl jumped with surprise. She spun around quickly, her hair dancing around her face. Her cheeks grew a soft rose color and her eyes widened with embarrassment. She turned her eyes away form me and bit her lip, unable to make any type of response. I smiled softly and studied her closely. As I had imagined she was flawless. It was as if she was sculpted from marble and life was breathed into her, letting her live.
"I'm sorry." she whispered, her voice ringing like a bell in my ear. My heart seemed to shudder, as did the core of my soul, as those words echoed in my mind.
I smiled. "You have no reason to be. I'm just wondering why you followed me."
The girl's face quickly grew red and she turned away from me. I felt a sudden wave of anger towards myself. She was a delicate creature and I wasn't doing much to keep her comfort in my presence. I cleared my throat and she instinctively turned to look at me. Our eyes me and I felt my heart skip a beat once more. Words escaped me for a moment and I wished I could capture her simple expression in a painting.
"I didn't think you'd be in here." she said, finally finding her voice. Her eyes studied me for a moment. "When I came around the hall, I saw the door open. No one was here when I looked in. I thought you went into another room, so I decided to look at your paintings. I'm sorry that I was touching them. Hopefully none of them are ruined."
A soft smile crossed my face. "It's okay. My paintings have been through a lot worse than being touched, even as delicate as you have." Slowly I took a few steps towards her. She took a step back, keeping a distance between us. "But you still didn't answer my question."
"Oh!" she said. A soft, nervous laugh escaped her and I felt my soul stir with the very sound. She looked at me bashfully. "I noticed that you were drawing people when I was walking around. When I walked into the room I got the feeling that you were drawing me." Her fingers slowly began to fiddle with the soft curls of her hair nervously. Her emerald eyes locked onto mine for a moment, before looking away. "I just wanted to see the picture you drew of me."
"Really?" I asked, somewhat surprised by the source of her curiosity. I moved past her quickly and took hold of my sketchbook. I flipped through the pages until I got to my sketch of her. For a moment I paused, wondering if I should hand it over and let her view the unfinished work. With a sigh I held it out to her; I was going out on a limb. "Here you go."
Without a word she took the sketchbook and nervously looked over her portrait. Her eyes widened and she smiled. Her eyes turned to mine once more and this time she didn't turn them away. "You're really talented. This is beautiful. I don't think this looks a thing like me. I'm not as elegant as you drew me."
I looked into her eyes, nearly losing myself in them. "I sketched what I saw." I breathed, unaware of what I had just said.
With a blushed face she looked over the sketch again. "My name is Christine." she said, slowly turning her eyes to me.
"I'm Erik." I replied with a smile, overjoyed with the fact I now knew this angel's name. "It's nice to meet you."
Christine smiled bashfully and handed my sketchbook to me. "Well, I need to get to my next class. I'm sorry if I interrupted anything." As she said this she quickly grabbed her book and seemed to grow self- conscious before my eyes. "It was nice to meet you.
"I was wondering, Christine," I said, causing her to stop as she took a few steps towards the door. "if you would be a model for a few of my paintings."
For a moment Christine stared at me in a state of shock. I had the sinking feeling she would turn my offer down, being approached by a stranger out of no where and one with a mask covering half of his face. I can frighten most people when I look at them just right.
"I. . . Are you sure you want me as a model?" Christine finally said her voice full of nervousness. I couldn't find an answer to the question. I wanted to tell her that I couldn't go a day without finishing at least one painting of her. She lowered her eyes seeming to find her thoughts. "Where would you have the sessions?"
"It would be in one of the art rooms here." I replied. A sigh of relief escaped Christine, and I couldn't blame her for that. These days you can't trust many people. It must've been frightening to have me, a strange masked man, ask her to be a model.
Silence surrounded us. I watched Christine for a moment. Every simple movement she made was enticing. The way she looked at me and the way her eyes scanned over my paintings. She was a frightened creature, but she had the regal beauty that lacked words.
"So, will you be a model for a few of my paintings?" I asked, my soft voice breaking through the silence.
Christine's eyes slowly locked onto mine. They shook for a moment and than a soft smile graced her face. "I'd love to!"
I couldn't help but return Christine's bright smile. Her smile widened slightly and her cheeks grew a soft pink color. Our eyes never left the others and, for a moment, I felt like we connected on some level, some how.
"Why don't we start tomorrow? We can meet in here. Is around eleven okay for you?" I asked, my smile never fading and my eyes never leaving hers.
Christine lowered her eyes bashfully, keeping her smile, and nodded. "That sounds great!" She smiled happily and looked at me. "Is there anything specific that I need to bring or wear?"
I shook my head. "Just come in what ever you want. If it comes to it, I will instruct you."
"Okay. So, I'll see you tomorrow?" Christine asked, slowly taking a few steps backwards. I nodded with a smile, which made her eyes glitter with joy. She smiled and gave a short wave of her fingers as she clutched her book to her body. "Bye."
I watched as she disappeared from the room and from my view. My heart fluttered in my chest as I felt a wave of feelings I had never felt before. I've read books upon books, enough to fill a library, and none have come close to the sonnet and symphony I was creating in my mind about this simple feeling. As a child I was given anything and everything I wanted. Now, though, I was receiving something I didn't receive when I needed it; a sense of love and longing.
Holding these simple feelings in my heart I looked once more at my sketch of Christine. Her warm eyes stared at me, with the soft smile gracing the simple beauty she held. I traced the image with a finger and smiled to myself. Closing the book and gathering my things I left the room, turning off the lights and locking the door. I had to get home; mother wouldn't be happy if I was late.
**********
It was half past three when I walked through the front doors of my mother's home. The grand, two story Victorian replica smelt of cooking bread and vanilla from a few of the lighted candles. The smell was welcoming, but the sounds from the distant kitchen made my once joyful mood bitter. I could hear my mother cooing and laughing into the phone as she spoke with one of her newest love interests. One would think a woman of strict Catholic values wouldn't be such a whore.
I shrugged off my jacket and hung it upon the empty coat rack, placing my sketchbook and supplies on a small end table. Slowly I moved, silent as a cat and as vicious as a feline on the prowl. I inched closer to the kitchen, my ears slowly taking in every sickening word of my mother's breath. This man, a doctor by the name of Peter King, she spoke to didn't know I existed. She brought him home once, thinking I was asleep or working on a piece of art, but I sat at the top of the stairs, half in tears and in a fit of rage as I listened to answer this man's questions, denying that I existed.
"No, it's no problem, Pete!" my mother giggled. "Besides, I have something perfect I can make. I hope you like duck! That's good! I have a perfect recipe for it."
Duck! It was a rare delicacy in our family, despite the money we had in our grasp. Now, though, she was speaking as if it was eaten everyday within these hollowed walls. I frowned and cursed beneath my breath as she went on about the dinner she would prepare. What of me, though? What was I to do? More than likely I would be banished to my room at the end of the upstairs hall, or paid to go out and do something to entertain myself until past midnight.
I turned away and, in my cat like grace and silence, I moved to the stairs, grabbing my sketchbook as I moved past it. With a glance towards the kitchen door and my mother's shadow, I made my way up the staircase. The stairs creaked softly beneath my weight as I hurried up the last few steps. I knew my mother heard the soft sounds for her conversation became hushed and the giggling softened.
The hall opened before, expanding on both sides to an array of open and closed door. The air was chilled and the lights turned off, leaving an eerie feeling in the air, despite the time of day. Few pictures graced the walls of our home and only pictures of my early years were allowed to be hung. In my room, though, I kept all the pictures my mother tried to hide or throw away. All of the pictures of my father were hidden in my room. Yes, I despise him for what he has done and put me through, but there are times I wished to see him. I knew for a fact, though, that he lived in this city or in a neighboring one and I had a longing to contact him.
I moved down the opposite wing of the hall, straying from my room. I was in the mood to compose something. There was a song playing within my mind, pulling at my fingers. Silently I moved past the empty walls and towards the open door to my own little studio. I could see my paintings and my piles of unfinished symphonies. The end of my grand piano was barely seen and the stand for my violin's music was leaning against the wall. All of this, all my work, was given to me by my father, who saw it fit to have me express myself in the arts, a way which he wanted to but his destiny was too far.
"Erik, is that you?" My mother's voice seemed to slither and come from the darkness around me.
"Yes, mother." I replied, coming to a stop. I lowered my head and closed me eyes, listening to her soft breath and whispers from the bottom of the stairs.
"You're late." she said with a bitter tone. "Didn't I tell you to come straight home when you were done with you're classes?"
I slowly opened my eyes and let out a soft sigh. "Yes, mother, and I'm sorry. My instructor, Mrs. Marrin, wanted me to sketch some students around campus. I lost track of time."
There was a moment of silence, in which I hoped she disappeared back to the kitchen to finish her conversation with Peter. To my dismay, she had crept up the stairs and was standing at the mouth of the staircase, her shadow hovering near my own. Slowly I turned to face her, standing straight, with my head held high, just as she always instructed me. A trace of a smile crossed her lips, but a twinkle of fear danced within those eyes I found much dislike in.
"You must've sketched quite a few people." my mother said. She crossed her arms over her chest and looked me in the eye. For a minute I felt inferior, much like I did when I was younger. "May I see what you have drawn?"
"No, you may not" I growled, my eyes growing with anger as I met her gaze.
My mother flinched. "And why not?"
I narrowed my eyes and turned away from her sharply. "You never took interest in my sketches before, why should you now?" I moved quickly into my studio and paused. I glanced over my shoulder and looked at my mother. "I suppose I'll be going out tonight, since dear Mr. King will be paying you a visit. Be sure to keep your hands off each other. It's sickening to know that my 'righteous' mother is teaching me abstinence while she isn't practicing it herself."
With that I slammed the door to my studio, blocking her shocked expression from my eyes.