by Lana Sky
“Roses are not your flower,” he declares.
“Oh? And oleander is?” The bravery I hope my voice carries falls flat. My gaze won’t leave Simon’s mutilated flower. My reminder. Coherent thoughts scatter like those broken petals. I’m clenching my fingers, aching to shove the remains together and somehow make it whole again. “I’m leaving—”
“Do you want to know why I paint my subjects nude?” he wonders suddenly.
“Considering that you supposedly ‘see’ through touch, I can imagine why.”
Rich laughter echoes in the wake of my irritation. He deploys the reaction the same way someone else might a narrowed gaze or terse expression: as a warning.
“People hide behind layers,” he explains. “The more you remove, the more of the real person is revealed underneath. For instance, the loss of a single rose can strip a woman bare in ways she doesn’t realize.”
“Is that so?” I cross my arms over my chest. “Frankly, Mr. Villa, this conversation is becoming inappropriate—”
“You want me to paint you,” he says over me. “And yet, frankly, Ms. Thorne, there is nothing about you worth painting. I capture people. Not their masks, and you have crafted a rather elaborate one if I may say.”
“E-excuse me?” No one talks to me like this. I can’t remember the last time a man even raised his voice to me other than the recent voicemails. It’s a benefit of living in a cage of glass, steel, and concrete. Money creates an imaginary world with padded edges and gossamer chains.
The rules are simple: ignore and pretend.
“I’ve changed my mind,” I say, turning on my heel. “You can have your damn painting and the doll. Have a good day, Mr. Villa—”
“Strip.” The command comes so softly that I had to have imagined it. A cruel joke played by a twisted mind?
But no.
The air feels heavier and my cheeks are on fire. Wounded pride won’t let me move without first choking out a question. “What did you say?”
“I told you to strip,” he replies, his voice eerily calm. Almost taunting. “Unless you’re afraid of the person you’re hiding beneath that priceless designer frock.”
“Afraid?” I force my own bit of carefree laughter, but the notes ring hollow. “So you’re a sexual deviant as well as a hack—”
“I’ll say this once,” he interjects. “You can insult me all you want, but never my art.”
My spine stiffens at the subtle shift in his tone. A shout wouldn’t carry the same level of malice. No. He’s honed intimidation into an art form.
“Now, I’d like for you to leave. Adiós.”
My heels rock against the floor, but I don’t budge. Instead, I watch myself from the window’s surface. Proud, perfect Juliana.
He’s a liar. If only he weren’t a better one than I am.
My fingers sweep along my hip, gathering my skirt between them. I move slowly, registering the cold air with every inch of fabric I wind up my torso. When the material clears my head, I let it fall with a resounding thud. At the same time, my gaze goes to Damien. I want him to blush. Or leer in the chilling revelation that he isn’t blind. Anything but sigh.
With the aid of his cane, he returns to the table and sits. He snatches another sheath of paper from the drawer while his free hand beckons sharply. “Come here.”
“W-why?” Anxiety surges beneath my skin, whipping my nerves into a frenzy. What the hell am I doing? Standing half-naked before a stranger, for one. Of all the things to consume my attention, it shouldn’t be his disinterest.
“I’ll ask you one more time to come here.” He sounds like he’s scolding a naughty child and considering withholding a toy.
“What are you going to do?” Regardless of my unease, I come to the opposite end of the table, and he nods to the expansive surface before him.
“Lie down.”
A refusal springs to my lips but dies before I can voice it. Turning my back to him, I perch myself on the edge of the table and shift my weight so that he’s on my left. Inch by inch, I lower myself backward until the chilled wood bites into my skin.
“Don’t relax,” he warns as his hand settles over my outstretched wrist. His fingers give the flesh an examining brush. “I want you to feel.”
The request haunts me as my gaze flickers up to the shadowed ceiling. These days, I don’t have time to feel. I project—confidence, fearlessness, perfection.
Who am I without that so-called priceless frock crumpled on the floor?
I doubt a blind psychopath can tell me.
“What are you doing?” I croak as his touch continues up my arm, encroaching on my collarbone.
He says nothing. Every now and again, I hear the telltale hiss of charcoal scraping parchment, but I’m not brave enough to check his progress for myself.
Instead, my eyes drift shut as if of their own accord. Darkness and silence are the only tools I have to decipher the events taking place around me. Electricity humming. Artificial heat blasting. Hot, smooth skin exploring my own.
It should feel worse. I can’t escape the thought. Having him touch me should feel worse than it does. If only there weren’t a discernible method to his madness. He touches me where he must, gleaning what secrets my flesh contains before moving on to another area. Scratch, scratch goes the stick of charcoal, tracking his progress.
My arms. Shoulders. Hands.
My breasts…
“W-wait!” I can’t smother a cry when he cups one with his palm. “Don’t—”
“Leave, or stay,” he warns, his palm stilling.
My heart races, threatening to hammer right out of my chest. Somehow, I manage to lie still, and he continues his study of me. He’s not slow and deliberate with this part of my anatomy, however. One pass is all he makes before moving on. You’ve sketched one set of breasts, I guess you’ve sketched them all.
It’s my hips that consume the most attention.
“You have scars,” he says, unable to disguise a note of curiosity. “From what?”
None of your business. The words don’t come out, and he continues his groping without waiting for a response.
When his touch finally withdraws, the sounds of sketching pick up in earnest. Bold, sure strokes. Smaller, light dashes.
I let my mind wander, trying to envision what he comes up with. All I can picture is a shapeless mass of shadow. Somehow, I know when he’s finished without him having to say a word. My eyes open slowly, and I roll away from him, crossing my arms over my chest.
Pitch-black windows give a vague inkling of how much time has passed. Hours at least.
When I finally look over my shoulder at him, his hands are braced flat against the table and the tips of his fingers are blacker than ever. He touched me like that, tainted with the stain. I’m dotted in more fingerprints than the actual paper—like a canvas.
“Well?” He gestures to the finished drawing, his head cocked as if listening for my reaction, and I’m painfully aware of my rapid, shallow breaths.
I look down, biting my tongue. He made this sketch larger than the last. It consumes nearly the entire page: the result of shading and smeared charcoal.
The woman staring up at me is an enigma. I don’t recognize her. Or maybe I don’t want to. She’s more like a specter: someone I catch only glimpses of before I banish her with red lipstick and my custom wardrobe.
Someone I hide. Scorn. Shun.
But she gets her revenge now. Damien’s sought her out and pushed her presence right in my face.
“I request that we end this visit now, Ms. Thorne,” he says, rising to his feet. After extending his cane, he heads for the door, steadier than I feel. “Keep the scrap paper, but forget this address. Best regards to your father. I’m sure it will be quite the media spectacle when he announces his return to politics.”
He’s gone through the doorway before I fully register the intent of his words. Definitely a threat that time.
What’s more alarming is my reaction. I’m
not trembling when I finally place my feet on the floor and pull on my discarded dress.
I fully intend to leave the drawing, and I make it all the way to the elevator doors, wandering a hallway devoid of Damien. My finger strikes the button. The elevator arrives.
But the doors close without me inside.
There’s no one there to witness my return to that lone table. Upon retrieving the sketch, I fold it carefully, tucking it against my palm.
Maybe I’ll throw it away.
Or maybe I’ll keep it for Simon.
No matter how many gifts he’s sent and no matter how many years he’s haunted me, he’s never seen this woman.
I escape Damien’s lair only to reenter a neon jungle that doesn’t appear to have missed me any. Or so I think. I’m shocked to find a town car waiting patiently near the curb—the result of an overzealous driver? Or Damien himself? I don’t ask, though when I climb into the back seat, the clock on the dashboard proclaims it’s after midnight.
Then I remember. Panic racks my spine, though it could be pity. Or terror. Poor Simon. For the first time in twenty years, I’ve stood him up.
Worse than that: I’ve forgotten all about him…again.
Were I in my right mind, I would urge the driver to rush home, hoping to make amends with my deranged torturer before time ran out.
I’m too tired now. My eyelids flutter, weighed down by hours of tension. I’ve never felt so worn. So apathetic.
As the driver pulls before the Lariat on cue, I watch it loom above me in all its glory. “Never mind,” I hear myself say without reaching for the door. “I think I’ll stay at the Harrison tonight.”
It’s a less prestigious hotel on the other end of the city. One favored by the riff-raff, some might say. A place someone like me would rarely deign to stay at.
And the one place where Simon won’t look for me now.
Monday is a workday. There’s no sheltering from it beneath thin sheets or a worn duvet. Sluggish with dread, I drag myself from my suite at the Harrison and return to my apartment just as dawn kisses the horizon. I round the corner near my suite with my hands already outstretched, prepared to face my punishment.
Only to find my doormat empty.
My throat tightens, constricting what little oxygen I manage to breathe in. It’s a bad sign—the first of many. My final present of the year isn’t waiting for me on the kitchen counter beside my potted oleander. Neither is it on the glass coffee table in the living room.
Bitter apprehension suffocates the remaining air from my chest as I start toward my bedroom. It’s raining out. Icy drops speckle the windows, the view beyond them. The world below becomes a blurred kaleidoscope of motion and noise, like a merry-go-round on warp speed. My apartment, however, is frozen in time, and I can’t escape the insane feeling that everything, down to my white carpet, is watching me.
Waiting for something.
The door to my bedroom is cracked, just how I left it. However, the maid came while I was gone. She made my bed and tidied the closet, leaving her trademark card behind. No signs of Simon here.
Not even in the bathroom. Inside it, all I find are broken glass and dried blood.
I flinch as muffled notes of piano music begin to play. “Moonlight Sonata.” I follow the melody back into the living room and find my cell phone, clinging to the last cell of battery life. I cringe at the time I find flickering on the screen. Late. So late. My boss is the one calling, but I don’t answer.
If I shower now, I can make it to the office in less than twenty minutes. Wishful thinking, as it turns out. It takes more soap than usual to make me feel clean. Naked and dripping with moisture, I attempt my makeup.
First, a blood-red lip, like usual. Poreless foundation. Powder, powder.
Wrong. Lining my eyes with kohl doesn’t chase the redness in them away. Beads of liquid seep from behind them, ruining my attempts to create a fearless smoky eye. I try again. Again.
Damn it.
In the end, I settle for washing my face and slicking my hair into a bun. My outfit of choice is a black pantsuit that takes forever to button. I’m still fastening the last one as I hunt for my heels to the soundtrack of my incessant ringtone. Note to self: Lay off the Beethoven. I’ve never realized how fucking pretentious it sounds before.
Because I’m never late.
The grim thought chases me out onto the street, where I find my town car waiting as expected. However, rush hour traffic foils my timeline. I’m racing into my department forty minutes later to hushed gossip and startled expressions. Someone offers up a nervous hello as I rush into my office, but I don’t have the energy to return the greeting.
Focus. I shake my head to clear it and brace my hands over my lap. It’s Monday. A new day. One when Simon’s game is almost over and I’m free for 363 more until next year rolls around.
Freedom.
The hope plays around my mind as I shuffle from meeting to meeting, working on assignment after assignment. I even stay late, stretching my shift into a twelve-hour day despite how my temples throb and my eyes burn after hours of computer strain. Gradually, the office empties until I’m the only one left behind.
Only now do I slip on my coat and head for the elevators. When I reach the lobby, my lips contort into my trademark smile, ready to wish Gus goodnight. But I round the corner near the main entrance only to find his podium empty, a lady’s magazine lying on top. My stomach churns; I’ve stopped without realizing it. Slowly, I force myself to take a step and shake off the unease racing down my spine. He most likely ran to the bathroom.
Regardless, uncertainty builds with every step I take toward the main doors. Roughly ten feet of space separate me from them. My car is waiting; out front, I spot the ruby glow of taillights. I won’t take another detour tonight, to a madman’s dwelling or otherwise. I’ll go home. I’ll be a good girl.
I’ll wait my turn. Simon’s game isn’t over yet.
But this time…I think he sent someone to play with me. Their footsteps are softer, echoing mine. Thwack. Thump. Thwack.
“H-hello?” I call out.
The figure casting the shadow flickering along the wall up ahead is too tall to be Gus. Too slender.
Too fast.
I run, pumping my arms, reaching for the door—but something slams into me before my fingertips graze the glass. I land on my knees, tasting blood, and a split second is all I have to react. Run!
There’s a side exit directly across from Gus’s desk. I lunge for it, but sudden tension on my hair locks me in place as a cry rips from my lips.
“Don’t move,” someone breathes into my ear, their voice harsh.
And I’m transported twenty years into the past.
We were playing, a code word for competing. Dolls, toys, clothes—the quality mattered more than the game. Mine was a neighbor’s hand-me-down, about ten years out of production. I’d done my best to brush out her gnarled, brown hair and arrange her faded, navy dress, but it was no use. Everyone else had the latest plastic creations. Once again, I had to play on the outskirts, designated the “trailer trash” character in this dolly neighborhood.
“Then I’m trailer trash too,” Leslie declared, shooting me a smile that displayed her two front teeth. She thought she was coming to my rescue, like always, but therein lay the rub.
No one would ever mistake her designer doll for anything less than one spit out by the finest boutique.
Her doll never dwelled in a house that doubled as a meth lab. Leslie never had to trade her for cigarettes stolen from her parents’ stash or spend hours scraping old grime off her with a toothbrush.
“It’s late,” one of the other girls declared. She began to pack up her toys, signaling to the other girls to do the same.
Once again, I had put my skills as a social leper to good use. As always, Leslie was the only one who stayed behind. She helped me stow my ratty selection of dolls and accessories into my backpack—but like any good friendless pariah, I spurred her
attempts to make nice.
“I’m walking home,” I told her, preemptively rebuking our customary ride home in her dad’s car. “I’m not some stupid, spoiled brat like you!”
Rather than get upset, Leslie simply blinked in that slow, understanding way of hers. Then she gathered up her sparkly bookbag and nodded. “I’ll walk too.”
The only flaw in my boast was that I had no idea how to walk home. I’d always taken the bus before Leslie’s friendship. But even back then, I refused to lose face. So I picked a direction away from the school and started walking while Leslie followed.
We lived close to each other, ironically enough. She was in the brand-new development just outside of town, while I was in the trailer park behind it.
Both areas required a ten-minute trek on a lonely stretch of road that climbed into the hills. What Leslie didn’t know was that even my neglectful parents never let me walk home alone. I’d done my best to disguise my unease, marching with my chin jutting into the air.
But bravery couldn’t save us from a stranger’s predatory intent. We heard him first: heavy footsteps and intermittent whistling. I still remember the tune, the one from the opening of a popular Saturday morning cartoon. It teased us from beyond a border of trees. Louder. Softer.
Until it sounded as though it were being hummed directly into my ear.
And there was no escape.
Pain drags me back to the present as something scrapes the flesh of my throat. Something sharp. Thin.
“Don’t move,” a man growls into my ear between pants. He doesn’t sound like Simon—the only shred of comfort I can find. He isn’t my monster, and I’m not the same little girl I was twenty years ago. “…want to die…stop—”
Scream! It’s the first lesson taught in every self-defense class I’ve ever taken. Scream. Flail. Fight.
I kick out with my legs and brace my hands against the floor of the lobby, crawling forward, but agony explodes between my shoulder blades, driving the air from my lungs. The stench of body odor betrays just what is pinning me down: my attacker himself.
