Hello!
Not to be a nudge, but it would be slamming if you went and also read/reviewed my newly posted one-shot, You Know I Do.
It would also be awesome if you took a moment to review this story. Prologue and twelve chapters up and I have no reviews. It's making me wonder if I should just cut my losses and scrap this story. :/
Chapter Twelve
Axel leaves the room to find a hair tie for me. While he's gone, I set up an easel with a blank canvas, grab a palette, squeeze a bunch of different paints onto it, and start selecting brushes. I have three different brushes in my hand when Axel comes back in. He has a hair tie, but he's also carrying a small rectangular box.
"One of Zexion's assistants just dropped this off. I'm guessing it'll be your glasses," he says, holding the box out toward me.
"Perfect timing!" I say, feeling a bit of warmth for Zexion flutter through me. I take the hair tie and box, open it, and pull the glasses out. The frames are semi-thick and rectangular. I slide them on and everything is suddenly sharper. "Oh, wow. Is this how people see all the time?"
"I'm assuming," Axel laughs. "They look good on you. Zexion has good taste. I've always thought he was a bit metrosexual myself." I chuckle. I gather my hair up in a messy bun and stick the brushes I'm holding in it.
"Zexion seems like a nice enough guy. He's a bit young to be a doctor, though, isn't he?" I ask as I sit down in front of the canvas. Axel grabs another stool and sits down a few feet behind me.
"He is. You don't mind if I watch, do you?" he asks. I shake my head to show I don't. "Sweet. But yeah, he is. He's basically a genius, though. Finished up his degree when he was twenty." I whistle lowly as I dip a brush in deep blue paint.
"That's impressive. How'd you guys meet?" I ask while gently stroking the paint onto the canvas.
"When he finished up his degree, he took over the office here in town when old Doc Hart retired. Not even a week after he took over, I got some pretty nasty burns on my hands and didn't have much of a choice but to go in. I actually insulted him when he came in to check me out because I thought he was just some kid messing with me. I made him show me his license and ID before I would believe him. I felt pretty damn stupid at that point, but he took it pretty well. Told me I wasn't the first to do so. I apologized and offered to take him out for a drink to make up for it. Ever since then, we've been pretty good friends," he explained. I nod, currently having a brush between my teeth and another in my hand. I continue painting in silence for a few minutes, gracefully adding purples and just a bit of pink to the midnight blue. Slowly, I feel myself falling into a rhythm and into a trance. "Can I ask you something?" Axel asks suddenly.
"Sure," I whisper, barely hearing him.
"Who put all those marks on you?" My mind is still focused on my painting, so the question doesn't register as much apprehension as it usually would.
"Who didn't?" I say, avoiding the question just slightly.
"I don't understand. I thought I was the first person to buy you," he says, the confusion in his voice almost palpable.
"You are," I reply. After a few moments of silence, I sigh, knowing he's still waiting. I don't look at him, instead continuing painting in hopes it'll help me tell him what he wants to know. "You only see a part of the slave trade. The part you see is probably the prettiest side of it. You see the servants, the masters, and the shopkeeps. You don't see the people who takes us from our homes or the people who beat us into submission."
"How does it all work?" he asks, but I hear the hesitance in his voice. He doesn't really want to know the answer to that question. Maybe it's for this exact reason I choose to tell him.
"It depends on who the prospective servant it, what type of person they are. It starts with the servant being stalked and kidnapped. That's the part that's the same for everyone," I start as I make a broad stroke of white on the canvas. "That's when we're taken to the main behaviorist for whatever region we're from. They decide who's ready to go straight to market and who isn't. The ones who are submissive and willing to comply from the beginning go straight to market. The ones with too much spirit or the ones who try to fight back don't."
"I'm assuming you were in the latter group," Axel mumbles. I nod.
"Yeah, I was. People like me stay with the behaviorists. We don't call them that, though. We refer to them as 'breakers.' Anyway, it's their job to beat us into submission any way possible. Take the will to fight away from us. They get paid good money to do it, but most of them also seem to thoroughly enjoy it. Once they deem us significantly broken, they send us to market where our main breaker makes a deal with a shopkeep to buy us. Most people are only there for two or so weeks. I was with the breakers for three months before they decided to just get rid of me, despite the fact I wasn't ready. Once in the market, the shopkeeps re-sell us in hopes of doubling the money they spent on us. If we starting acting out, the shopkeeps will call in a breaker or two to come fix the situation. That's why I'm so marked up. There was a breaker in our shop just about every other night," I finish.
"Those scars on your forearms, though…those look so…deliberate…" I bristle slightly.
"Like I said, they try to break you by any means possible. If that means breaking the flesh on your back open with a whip, they'll do it. If that means breaking a few ribs, they don't mind. If that means putting a razor blade into your hand and making you put the scars there yourself, they're more than happy to do so," I explain, venom dripping from my voice. Axel goes silent, and I think the discussion is over.
"Will you tell me about the night you were kidnapped?" Axel suddenly spits out. My hand stops its actions and my eyes widen just a little. My breathing starts becoming labored at the thought.
"I-I'd really prefer not to, if you don't mind," I whisper, silently begging him to let it drop. Luckily for me, he does.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."
"It's fine," I whisper again. When a sufficient silence engulfs us again, I'm able to continue my work. After a while, I pause. The top half of the canvas is full, but the bottom is blank. I wait for inspiration.
"How do you decide what to paint?" Axel asks softly as I stare at the blank space.
"What do you mean?" I murmur.
"I mean, you just sat down and started painting. It's like you didn't even think about it. You just started. How do you do that?" I shrug delicately.
"I just do. To me, painting is about feeling, not thinking. I just let my mind go blank and let my brush hand do the thinking. I rarely know what I'm doing until I'm finished," I mumble as I focus on smaller details.
"Huh," Axel says, baffled by my answer. "I can't do that. I always go in with a very specific picture in my head. I can almost never get it exactly as I imagine, though."
"Is that why you destroy so many of them?" I ask.
"Yeah. I just get mad that they don't turn out right," he says softly.
"Why do you burn them, though? Wouldn't just throwing them out be less dangerous?" I ask as I lean back to inspect my work so far.
"Yeah, but there's just something so beautiful about burning them. Watching the flames dance over the colored canvas is just so mesmerizing. So enchanting," he explains, a wispy sound in his voice. I stop and turn around just enough to look at him. His eyes are glazed over and he looks as though his mind is very far away. Suddenly, his eyes turn up to mine and I feel lost. After keeping our gazes locked for so long, Axel clears his throat and looks away. "I'd probably be a better painter if I painted like you do," he says to break the silence. I look at my canvas before looking back to him.
"Come here," I say. He looks back up at me.
"What?" he asks.
"Come here," I repeat. He gets up and starts toward me; I turn back to the canvas. When he's next to me, I hand him my palette. "Here," I say while getting off my stool. He takes the palette and sits down hesitantly. "Just let your mind go blank. Don't think about what you're doing and just do it."
"But this is your painting. I can't just paint on your painting," he says, looking up at me. I smile.
"Sure you can. If we like it, we'll just both sign at the bottom."
"But what if I screw it up?" I shrug.
"I don't even know what it is yet. I don't even know if I like it yet or will in the end, so you can't exactly mess it up, now can you?"
"I guess not. I don't know what to do, though." He looks back at the canvas. I can see his mind working, trying to logically figure out what to do. I start to panic since I want him to just do what he feels. Quickly, without thinking, I throw my hands over his eyes.
"No, no, no. No thinking! Just dip the brush in a color and do what you feel," I say quickly. His skin is warm under my hands and I feel his face turn up in a smile under my hands.
"And you expect me to do that with my eyes closed?" he says, obviously amused.
"I had to stop your brain some way. I'll move my hands when you promise me not to think about what you're doing. Promise?"
"Yeah, yeah. I promise," he says. I slowly remove my hands from his face. I take a few steps back to drag the stool he had been sitting in forward. I sit next to him.
"Alright. Go," I say. He looks at me and reaches a hand towards my face. My eyes widen. "Wh-What are you doing?" I stutter, but his hand goes past my face.
"Relax. I obviously need a brush," he says, a small smile playing on his lips. I feel a brush slide out of my hair and he holds it up as if to prove a point.
"Oh," I say, looking away. He chuckles and turns back to the canvas. Once he's not looking at me, I look back at him and the canvas. He dips the brush in a vibrant red before touching it to the canvas. He paints with long, broad, fluid strokes and I'm captivated. He continues on with rich oranges and yellows. His face goes smooth and his eyes look glassy. I wonder if I look as good as he does when I paint.
It's when he starts with a rose pink that my eyes widen and see what needs to be done. I jump up and hurry to grab another palette. I squirt bright yellow, gray, black, pale blue and white onto it and grab a paint sponge. I sit back down and his trance is broken as I dip a brush into the pale blue.
"What're you doing?" he asks, stopping his strokes.
"Just keep going," I whisper, touching the pale blue at the base of his work. He hesitates before continuing. I take the sponge and gently smear together the borders of our progress. I dab the sponge to lightly smudge random spots in each of our parts before setting the sponge aside. I fill the very bottom of the canvas, the only space left blank, with little gray and black squares and rectangles with spots of yellow and white. When done there, I take the white and yellow and dab little spots into the very top portion of the canvas.
I sit back and wait for Axel to finish his final details. When he finally sits back with me, I take the time to really observe the now completed painting. Together we ended up painting the evening sky above a grungy little city. My original section is made up of deep purples and blues, littered with stars, and his transitions into the last parts of a sunset. The colors are all so deep and blend together perfectly. I'm completely awestruck.
"Wow," I finally say. It's the only word that sums up my thoughts.
"Yeah," Axel says just as quietly next to me. I glance over to him and his face is absolutely bewildered.
"How did that feel?" I ask. He nods approvingly, still staring at the canvas.
"Good."
"Just good?" He smiles.
"Great." I smile too and turn back to the painting.
"Here," I say, pulling a signature pen from my hair. He takes it and signs in the bottom left corner. He hands it back to me and I do the same in the bottom right corner. "What should we title it?" I ask, hovering the pen between our names.
"I don't know. You pick," he says, still staring at our work. I smile again and pause. Finally, I put the pen back to the canvas and write the title.
Worlds Colliding