by Ella Frank
I can feel his eyes tracking me. Instead of feeling uneasy like I did during that first meeting, I feel aware, and I feel loss. I feel the loss of a man I want and know I can never have. Turning to face the Sacred image, I am once again shocked by the knowledge that he never painted me in any of these replicas. It was always her. This time, I don’t back away from the recreation of her he has so painstakingly painted. No, this time, I reach out and trace my fingers down the violin.
“She truly is beautiful, not only her, but Diva, too.” I whisper to him, trying to let him know that I’m okay with this. I want him to know that I am resolved to the fact that I can never be her and that I can never have him, but my words are met only with the heavy weight of sobering silence.
I let my eyes travel over all the tiny details he has remembered, focusing on the position of her hands and the scratches on the violin. It is terrifying in its brilliance, and I know that each and every image he has recently painted is a perfect replica of the originals that are hanging in memory two floors below.
“There are no F-holes on any of the paintings after Solitary and Acquiesce. Why is that?” I realize belatedly and look over to him.
His shifts and his elbows move to rest on the arms of the chair. His fingers form a steeple in front of his mouth, covering the lower half of his face. Still, he says nothing.
There’s absolute silence.
“Why?” I question him again. I turn my eyes back to the image. Examining it, I theorize out loud. “Diva’s there, and she is naked. She is special. Her image to you is sacred, yet Diva is covering her. Why are there no F-holes?”
Blinking slowly, I trace my fingers over her again, scouring my brain. I am desperately trying to think of why. Why didn’t he include her tattoos, not only here, but on any of the final four? I am so involved in my own thoughts that I don’t even notice when he moves. His shadow falls over me from the opposite side of the canvas, alerting me of his nearby presence.
Lifting my eyes to his, clearly confused, I ask again, “Why are there no F-holes?”
“It is not my fault that when you look at the images, you see something unhealthy and disgusting. That’s all on you,” he recites her journal verbatim.
Everything slowly starts to fall into place. The pieces I couldn’t fit together from just moments before join as one.
“You were there that day,” I accuse softly.
His eyes lock with mine, unashamed at what he has just revealed to me.
“That day she argued with her mother, you were there, listening to her. Why?” Shaking my head, I ask a different question. “Why didn’t you tell her you knew about the argument? What significance did it make to leave them off?” I finally stop my rapid-fire questions and stare at him, anticipating an explanation. I pause, allowing him time to explain this strange revelation, so it makes sense to me.
Closing his eyes, he turns, pushing his hands into his pockets. Slowly, he moves to the open window and stops. I stand impatiently where I am, having learned that it is best to wait for Phillipe to talk than to push him.
“I could tell when I first met her parents months earlier that they didn’t approve of me or of us.”
Clearing his throat, he looks at me over his shoulder. I frown and as he pauses before continuing.
“They thought I had seduced her. Her father told me so the first time I met him. He didn’t understand that she was a woman. She was a grown adult woman who had feelings and desires. All he saw was the little handicapped girl he had raised.”
Turning to face me fully now, he leans back against the window, and his hair falls forward as the wind catches it.
“They didn’t want to let her go. I understood that.” He paused again, and his eyes pinned me with the force of his intensity. “I don’t want to either.”
Glancing down at the image before me, I lick my lips and move away from it, walking around the easel to stand in front of it. I leave nothing between him and me—well, nothing except for her.
“That doesn’t explain why you left them off,” I point out, being persistent as ever.
Closing his eyes, he shakes his head. “After Solitary, since she had permanently tattooed herself, I decided that I could give them this. I could leave her untarnished for them.”
I realize that I’m fidgeting with my hands, so I clasp them in front of my body and tilt my head to the side.
“When I came back from town and heard her on the phone, I knew it was her mother. She was shaking with anger at whatever her mother was saying, but I could also tell by the flush on her face that some of what she was hearing was ringing true with her.”
I find myself captivated by his story and also baffled by the thought of him believing the tale he was telling me. Before I can voice my reasoning, he continues.
“I decided not to add them out of respect—respect for her parents, respect for her, and respect for the music I defiled. After all, I turned her and her music into something lurid and depraved.”
Eyes full of conviction challenge me as I narrow my own and step toward him.
“You are so wrong,” I stress.
He straightens and stands tall, freeing himself away from the window and wall.
“She wasn’t embarrassed, not at all. Didn’t you hear and read what she wrote about you?”
As I stop before him, I let my eyes search the face I have now grown so passionate about. How can he not see what I see? He’s so wrapped up in her and all that he thinks he did that he doesn’t even see what she left behind to show him.
Taking a huge risk, I reach up and gently cup his cheek. He doesn’t move, except for his jaw tightening beneath my palm.
“She loved you, Phillipe. She was so proud to have those marks on her skin. She wasn’t embarrassed at all.”
His nostrils flare as he leans down, so we are eye to eye.
“You weren’t there. She was agitated, and she looked humiliated.”
Shaking my head, I stare into his eyes to get my point across. “Well, we all know that looks can be deceiving. Don’t we?”
***
“You want me to paint you how?” he asked me again, sounding slightly confused.
“I want you to paint me looking at a wall covered with sheet music,” I stated again.
There was a long silence in the room.
Finally, he spoke again. “What do you mean? As in, you reading the music? You don’t use sheet music.”
I had thought about this many times. The whole emotion behind the piece that I wanted him to convey was one of deception, not really seeing what was in front of you. What better way to show that than me staring at sheets of music on the wall? For years, I had learned to play by ear, and for years, people had never really seen me as the woman I am.
“I was thinking of a white room, like my acoustic room. Instead of the sound boards, it will have sheets of music everywhere. It will represent that sometimes what is front of you and what you are seeing isn’t really so. It can, in fact, be quite deceptive.”
Stillness wrapped around me as the room went silent.
A minute passed before he said, “I want to understand why you feel this way. Do you feel...” He paused. “Like I don’t see the real you?”
I took a deep breath and shook my head. “Oh no! Phillipe, god no. See, that’s the whole point of the piece. I want to call it Deceptive. I want it to make people think.”
His hand cupped my cheek, and his lips pressed against my own.
“Who do you think doesn’t understand you?”
“Everyone,” I replied quickly before shaking my head. “No, that’s not true. My parents, people who don’t take the time to know me, the ones who find out I’m blind and make a split-second judgment.”
I opened my eyes and looked to where I thought he would be. I strain to see, trying to remember everything about my dream from just the night before.
“I want them to see what they think I am but wonder at the title.”
“Deceptiv
e,” he muttered against my mouth.
His warm breath brushed my lips as he tried out the title. Parting my own, I sighed, and his tongue entered my mouth. He kissed me deeply before pulling back.
“Truer words have never been spoken. You are so much more than they all know.”
“I love you,” I told him.
His hands trembled where they cupped my face. “And I love you.”
***
Phillipe reaches up and covers Gemma’s hand where she still has it pressed to his cheek. Slowly, he moves it until her open palm is against his mouth.
Keeping his eyes on hers, he kisses there. “Thank you.” He can see her eyes beginning to fill with water as she blinks, trying to keep her emotions in check.
Shaking her head, she replies, “I didn’t do anything.”
“You have done far more than you know,” he whispers against her soft skin.
“No,” she whispers. She moves her hand down his neck, stroking her fingers across his chest. “Don’t do that yet.”
“Don’t do what?”
He reaches up, intent on removing her hands, but she’s not having it. Instead, she removes her hands and steps forward. Boldly, she reaches under his sweater to touch the button of his pants.
“I feel like you’re saying good-bye to me,” she explains, her fingers slipping inside his trousers to undo the top button.
Phillipe takes a deep breath as she slowly lowers the zipper and she looks up at him with wide eyes. He tightly grips the wrist at his waist as his heart picks up at what he’s about to do. Taking her hand, he loses the will to speak as she drops to her knees before him. She leans up to blow a warm breath of air against his now painfully hard cock. He’s trying to tell her something, but words are failing him as he looks down to see her sizing him up like her next meal.
“Gemma,” he says, trying to stop her again.
“Shh,” she replies. Looking up at him, she parts his pants. “Let me.”
Closing his eyes, Phillipe lets his head fall back. This is a bad idea for so many reasons. He’s just finding it hard to come up with one.
“You shouldn’t,” he tells her.
As he reaches down to grip her hair, she dips her hands inside and gently pulls him free. Leaning forward, she touches the tip of him with her tongue and looks up at him.
“But I want to.”
“Gemma, this doesn’t change or help anything,” he stresses.
This time, he releases her hair as she takes the head of his cock into her warm mouth.
“Jesus. No!”
Looking down, he watches as her blonde head moves down over his hard-as-hell shaft, and he feels a shiver skate up his spine. I shouldn’t be doing this. I brought her here to tell her this is done. It is over. He didn’t intend to have her down on her knees, essentially bringing him to his.
Knowing this will break her but not seeing any other way to do it, he reaches down and grabs her arms, pulling her away from his hungry body.
“Stop!” He growls, pulling her close.
He takes her lips brutally. Spearing his tongue deep into her mouth, he pummels it over and over as if he would die without the taste of her. He knows he has to let her go, so after one last sweep of her warm mouth, he pushes her away. He fists his cock hard, tugging it, as he stands there, staring at her. She’s panting, her mouth parted, as her eyes latch onto his angry throbbing shaft as she tries to move back to him.
“You don’t want to do that,” he warns. He steps away with his hands on his frustrated body, keeping his eyes on her.
“Why? Let me ease you,” she pleads, reaching out a soft gentle hand.
Knowing he needs to crush this right this second, he quickly grips her wrist and pulls her forward. Wrapping her fingers around his aching flesh, he curses.
In a voice so thick and full of gravel that he almost has a hard time getting it out, he tells her, “You came here, Gemma. You came here and listened. Now, it’s time to go.”
“Stop.” She shakes her head. “We aren’t done yet. There’s still more I have to ask.” She pauses, pulling her hand away. Rushing on, she says, “There’s more you need to tell me.”
Phillipe tilts his head while he stuffs his unsatisfied cock back into his pants. “What more do you need to know, Gemma? I sent the last two pictures, Sacred and Deceptive, to the gallery owner two weeks before!” He leaves his explanation hanging there. Both of them know what he’s referring to when he mentions before.
“Those paintings completed the final six that then became The Blind Vision Collection. That’s the whole reason why you came here.”
Putting her hand on her mouth, she takes a step back, realizing the enormity of what he’s finally telling her.
“No. No! I came here to learn about you, not your damn paintings. I already knew about them!” she yells at him.
Resolving himself to her reaction, he steps forward and grasps her shoulders, drawing her body in close to him. He crushes his mouth down onto hers again. She gasps and parts her lips, allowing him to push inside. Stealing one more brutal kiss, he wants to ease the desperate, frantic realization of loss flooding her as she stands there, trembling in his arms. As he moves away, letting her go, he looks down into eyes filled with hurt and confusion.
“The story has ended, Gemma. There’s nothing left to say.”
Wrapping her arms around her waist, she looks like she’ll fall apart at any moment.
“So, that’s it? After everything? After every single thing I have read and sat through, you don’t even trust me to tell me what fucking happened?”
Getting up in her space, he leans down until they are nose to nose.
“Yes. Isn’t that just too fucking bad? This is all you’re getting.”
With that, he storms past her, leaving her broken and bereft, just like he is.
***
I feel empty, like he’s ripped my heart from my chest and left with it clutched in his fist. As I stand in the center of the studio, I can’t comprehend everything that just happened. One minute, we were talking about the final two paintings. I was reassuring him. He thanked me, and then his mood completely shifted.
Breathing hard, I rub my forehead, still clutching my waist with my arm. Oh god, it hurts. I didn’t think it would hurt so much as he pulled further and further away from me, but it does.
Closing my eyes for a moment, I make myself take several breaths to calm down. My head is still ringing with his angry words. Instead of worrying about my stupid fucking article, all I’m doing is thinking about how he doesn’t trust me.
Finally, when I have my emotions somewhat in check, I open my eyes slowly and shake my hands by my side. Turning to leave the studio to go back to my room to start packing, my eyes fall to the large painting that had been sitting covered in the studio corner the whole time I have been here. This time, it is facing me, and this time, there is no cloth covering it. Raising my hand, I cover my mouth as it falls open with a silent gasp.
There, before me, is a painting I have never seen. My body trembles, and my skin breaks out in goose bumps as at the image sinks into my brain, passing through all my anger and all my hurt.
Walking toward the large canvas, I am once again captivated and entranced by his work. I swallow, feeling my heart pounding in my chest. It’s beating so fast that I’m surprised I can’t see it thumping against my shirt.
She is in the center of the canvas. Even in death—because death is what I see—she is beautiful. It’s immediately obvious what this image is depicting, and as I get closer, I feel like she’s behind me, urging me forward.
She’s in the water. Her beautiful white dress floats toward the surface as her lifeless body seemingly floats in repose. Arms, legs, and hair point down to her final resting place.
With a trembling hand, I run my fingers down her arm and touch her hand gently. As I let my eyes take in all that I am seeing, they are drawn to the ray of light, shining through the water from above, as it casts a glow
over her as she finds peace. I’m spellbound by Diva. The very instrument that brought her to life is floating down with her as the sun hits the bout of the violin. It makes complete sense that it is there, lingering near her, even in death.
Biting my bottom lip to keep myself from sobbing, I can feel the tears streaming down my face as my shoulders shake. I remove my hand from her palm and raise it to cover my mouth again as I let myself feel the pain of each agonizing stroke he made.
Stepping back slowly, I realize something else through all of the sadness and pain. He does trust me. This is him trusting me. I can feel it just as strongly as I can feel her presence here with me. She’s sharing in my moment of clarity and insight. I realize this is him trusting me with her.
Wiping the tears away from my face, I turn to go and find him. I’m determined to tell him that I understand now. I have everything I need. I know how incredibly wrong they all were.
After her death, Chantel’s parents had been the most vocal of his accusers. They pointed to him as the man who had brainwashed, manipulated, and trapped their poor blind daughter who had no knowledge of his wicked ways.
What irony it is that their daughter saw life and love more clearly than either of them did. Nothing about Chantel was explored. No one asked how she felt. No one looked beyond the surface. Everyone saw the finality of her life and made assumptions.
I now know that assuming was the biggest deception of all.
UNTITLED
Chapter Twenty-Seven ~ Truth
I race down the stairs and grab my coat from the rack by the door. Heading outside, I know exactly where he is—the river. He’s got to be down by the river.
Stopping for a moment, I look to the sky and feel the warmth of the sun as it beams down over my face. It’s just turned noon, and there isn’t a cloud in sight. It’s cool, but there’s no wind. The air is still.
Zipping my coat, I start to make my way to the small path through the vineyards, and as I get closer, I find myself picking up pace until I’m jogging. Reaching the last bend in the path, I make the turn and spot him immediately.
