by Mason, V. F.
Or she witnessed something she wasn’t supposed to and represents danger to the empire he plans to build.
Whoever this man is, he has lost his head, and it has become his undoing.
“Rebecca Esmeralda Hugh. That’s her name. He asked one of the men to spy on her.” Francis’s lids drop before he focuses his stare on me again. “Please let me go.”
Instead of answering him, I send the cigarette and match flying in his direction, and his screams full of pain and fear echo through the space as orange and blue flames flicker beside him, traveling up his body, destroying everything in their path while Francis continues to shout things I don’t give a shit about.
Pleasure fills me to the brink as I watch him writhe in agony while his body slowly becomes still, leaving a charred corpse behind as a souvenir.
However, the woman my victim spoke of enters my mind, not letting it rest or enjoy my nirvana for long.
Rebecca Esmeralda Hugh.
A woman whose life must be cursed.
For now she’s become bait in one monster’s game in order to lure away another, standing between two dooms that would hurt her regardless and bring chaos and gore to her life.
This cruel world has different types of monsters whose qualities, morals, and actions are shaped by the experiences they endured in the past.
Some monsters are cowards, striking in the dark at the weaker ones and never truly showing their face, engaging in their despicable activities somewhere far away and guarding their dark desires as their most precious possessions.
Some monsters thrive among the people, wearing a mask of deceit for everyone to see, while picking up innocent creatures and shattering their soul, because their suffering sustains the dark demons within them.
However, a third kind of monster exists, more complicated in their nature, for they welcome and thrive in the darkness slipping into the broken cracks of their soul, but they never let it rule them, holding tight reins on their actions and punishing those who most deserve it.
No matter which monster the bait encounters though, it won’t help it stay unscathed.
Because when monsters engage in a fight, the bait always ends up being collateral damage since its purpose consists of only one thing.
Destroying the opponent.
Chapter Two
“Love is one of the most powerful weapons a human can have.
For people are fools for it and will do anything while in the throes of passion as long as the object of their fascination stays with them.
That’s why love will never be part of my life.
Because such obsession brings nothing but tragedy.”
Esmeralda
New York, New York
Esmeralda
A loud knock echoes in the room followed by the door opening, allowing the light to slip inside my dark haven.
I pause with my brush midair, the paint dripping on my knees and staining my washed-out jeans that fit like a glove. The light breeze coming from outside cools my skin and brings much-needed relief to the humid air and scents floating around. “My God, woman, how do you breathe?” Lila exclaims, walking toward the window with her boots clicking loudly on the shiny floor. She makes sure to avoid the wide liquid spots in various colors spread over the area, her nose scrunching in distaste.
Raising my brow, I reply, “I’m alive, aren’t I?” Then I dip the brush again in red and apply it to the canvas that showcases a field of dandelions smeared in blood on a starry night.
Ah, the perfect shade for the gloomy atmosphere the unfinished painting represents.
“Yeah, sometimes that surprises me too,” she mutters, opening the blinds, and bright sunlight immediately floods inside, basking the studio in warmth and light.
Clacking my tongue, I place my hand on my forehead, blocking the sun away as my vision becomes blurry for a second. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” Only a deaf person would have missed the sarcasm and slight annoyance coating my voice, because interrupting me in my studio never ends well for anyone.
For it’s my safe haven where I can bare my heart and soul on empty canvases while the pain squeezing me from the inside doesn’t exist.
At least, for a moment in time, before the outside world comes back into focus to remind me how we might run from the place, people, and even the country… but never from ourselves.
And as such, drag the monsters eating at our flesh right along with us wherever we go.
Lila snaps her fingers in front of my nose, and I blink, while she shakes her head at me, a slight smile marring her lips. “You zoned out on me again. If I offended easily, I’d think I’m boring.”
“Don’t take it personally. Most conversations bore me.” The more appropriate word would be scare me, because a conversation might lead to attachments, and any sort of attachments lead to hurt and betrayal.
Or so is the lesson my family has taught me. That’s why avoiding them like the plague always works splendidly for me.
Her melodic laughter reverberates through the room at this, finding my discomfort around people highly amusing, and for the hundredth time, I wonder why she still stays by my side, despite my rude—according to some—approach. My bold statements never scare her or inspire any kind of tears; instead, she continues to invite me over to parties and tries to build a friendship despite my harsh resistance.
She sighs dramatically, putting her splayed palm on her chest, and says, “Ah, you wounded my heart.” She opens the huge window, and a harsh puff of wind enters, ruffling the different discarded sketches scattered around the floor.
Because if a painting is less than spectacular, it cannot be displayed in my gallery.
Or so is the excuse to cover the nightmares, which smear the white-as-snow papers when they come at night—instead of my inspiration—and demand to be depicted in my art.
Lila whistles. “Someone was busy last night.” And I don’t miss how her gaze strays to those paintings, her head cocked to the side as she studies them before kneeling down, her hand extending to grip one of them, but she freezes at my cold tone.
“You can look, but don’t touch,” I warn and drop the brush on the table beside me, wipe my hands with the towel, and swirl on my chair to face her while her eyes keep darting between all of them, confused.
That’s what happens when someone sees art before it’s ready. It makes zero sense for strangers and seems like chaos sank its teeth into everything around.
But for me, the artist?
I see the bigger picture in it and strive to achieve that.
“What do you want?” Grabbing a bottle of water, I take a greedy sip while keeping my stare on Lila. “You know better than to interrupt my working time.” A bit of anger laces my voice, but I soothe it with a light tone, indicating to her that I don’t mind as long as the reason is valid.
Lila has been with me for the last few years. Her boyfriend, Eugene, introduced us when I was preparing a gallery show dedicated to a young artist who wanted to announce to the world about their talent but didn’t have the right connections or means to do so. He sponsored the whole thing under one condition. I would allow Lila to hang a few of her paintings, which made me grit my teeth, since my show was exactly about fighting such things, but I figured it was worth it.
To my surprise though, all her paintings were magnificent, her talent streaming from canvases and making you stare at her work for hours.
And if there is one thing everyone knows about Rebecca Esmeralda Hugh… when she sees talent and a desire to achieve greatness, she drags you into her web and never lets go.
Maybe because art is the only thing that has been steady in my life, and my talent has allowed me to breathe easier each day.
And if I have the chance to give the same reprieve to someone else… well, then my existence has purpose.
Run, Esme, run. Run until you can’t, or he’ll find you.
I fist my hands hard until the nails dig into my skin, bruising it sli
ghtly and grounding me in the present, pulling me away from the flashback gripping my mind, wanting to swallow it whole.
Lila finally tears her gaze away from the paintings, clearly giving up on ever understanding my quirks, gets up and fishes out a gold-colored envelope from her bag, shaking it. “I’ve got a little something for you.” Since I don’t make a move for it, she sighs heavily. “You can at least act excited.”
“I was excited for the last wedding, and look how it turned out.” She winces a little, but I don’t really care. They don’t call me a cold bitch for nothing.
Eugene and she were supposed to get married three years ago, but then their weekend in the cabin had gone wrong, and Lila ended up in the hospital. They had to postpone the wedding for forever, since the loving couple ended up in an argument over some shit.
I even bought them a huge-ass gift, a statue by a very famous sculptor whose work Lila admires, that now collects dust in my warehouse. Not to mention all the shopping she dragged me to, since she asked me to be her bridesmaid.
And despite my less than stellar skills when it comes to communication with people, I went along, because her warmth and acceptance of those around her astonished me and soothed some of my rough edges.
“Couples sometimes have quarrels.”
I shrug, getting up and stretching my arms wide, welcoming the slight shiver traveling down my spine to the sore muscles. “I wouldn’t know. Never dated anyone long enough to find out.” Although my whole experience with the opposite sex can be summed up in five disastrous dates with one sloppy kiss, which led me to decide to never engage in such nonsense again. That’s not the kind of information I want to share with anyone though, even Lila, who can be considered the closest thing I have to a friend.
Although even she is not allowed to cross the boundary I drew around myself a long time ago in order to protect myself from the hurt.
Sooner or later, people you hold dear leave your life. So why get attached, right?
Lila extends the invitation to me, letting it hang between us as she pouts. “Pretty please?”
Huffing in exasperation, I snatch the envelope from her grip and point a finger at her. “You better walk down the aisle this time.”
“Oh, I will.” A secretive smile curves her mouth as a dreamy expression settles on her features. “I want to put a ring on that man so everyone knows he’s mine.”
I salute her with my bottle before taking a last sip and putting it back on the table with a clunk. “By all means, do it. Whatever removes the foolish expression from your face.” This statement is followed by another dreamy sigh, and I just shake my head.
Love truly is a dangerous matter.
I flip open my planner, skimming my activities and finding nothing important before the big day, which means I can focus on my art for the time being. Although after all my years in the industry, I no longer have to work for my name or reputation. The desire to create my own pieces still fuels my blood with pleasure and anticipation. Especially mixing different types of art together.
An image pops into my head. A boat rocking on navy blue ocean waves during a storm; the lightning streaking across the sky as people scream in terror, trying to survive. The stars witness to the entire tragedy as moonlight shines down on them.
The name for it flashes through my mind, fitting so perfectly to my vision.
Powerful nature and hopeless humans.
Blue.
I will need a lot of blue for this.
My hands are already itching to draw the image quickly. Shuffling through my cupboards, I slide my finger over various boxes with color tags and exclaim, “Yes!” when I find the three blue paints, snag them up, and blink, surprised that Lila still stands near my canvas, laughing into her hand. “Oh, you’re still here.” Usually, she dumps information on me and flies away from my studio. “Is there something else?”
“I need to learn how can you just block the outside world away.”
“Well, not all of us have a sexy man waiting for us at home,” I tease and laugh when her eyes narrow at me, not appreciating me admiring her man.
As if.
I start to think there is not a man alive who can inspire even a trace of desire in my body and make me yearn to experience carnal pleasures.
All amusement vanishes from me though when she clears her throat and says, “We invited your family too.” Since I stay silent at this announcement that is akin to cold weather splashed over me, she hastily continues, guilt dancing on the edges of her tone as she twists her hands together. “Your grandmother is good friends with Eugene’s grandma, so it was unavoidable. They have the same social circle, and you know how it works in high society.” A beat passes between us, and she whispers, “Esme, please say something.”
One of the paint tubes slips from my grasp and bounces on the floor several times before rolling under the cupboard, which finally snaps me out of my stupor. I utter the only reasonable words from my jumbled thoughts. “I didn’t know that.” Although I should have expected it.
Eugene belongs to one of the wealthiest families in the world, his line spanning generations and generations of good genes, who only multiply their empires.
He is part of the New York elite, and since my family could rival his in status, power, and money, it shouldn’t be such a shock to me our grandmothers are friends.
Although, the word friend among the elite is very fickle, because who stays in contact with you and continues to say hello largely depends on your current bank account and reputation.
Should you ever fall from the pedestal, no one will even spare you a glance, let alone remember your name.
However, just thinking about Grandmother being nice to anyone long enough to be invited to the wedding is beyond my imagination, and instantly familiar anger sweeps over me, my skin itching from the marks forever imprinted on my flesh, reminding me what her family ties truly entail.
The pencil point breaks on the paper from the pressure of my fingers trying to draw a perfect circle, and I scrunch my eyes, already expecting the verbal blow that comes a second later. “Pick up another pencil, Rebecca. You better win this competition. Or else!” she screeches in my ear, and I quickly wipe away the tear sliding down my cheek, snatching another pencil.
The invisible silky rope wraps around my throat, cutting off the oxygen to my lungs, and I hurry toward the window, carefully placing the paint tubes on the small table before inhaling air into my lungs, welcoming the gentle breeze caressing my cheeks.
Sweat coats my hands and neck while the memories slam into me one after another, not giving me reprieve from the coldness sinking into my bones and freezing my insides.
Thunder echoes, and I lift my head, noticing clouds gathering, ready to blanket the sun in darkness as the wind intensifies a little, ruffling the leaves on the oak trees and swaying the rose bushes scattered all over the property.
Birds squawk loudly, flying up high when the thunder cracks once again, followed by the raindrops falling on the asphalt, the slap-slap-slap sounds filling the air.
The soft footsteps behind me alert me to Lila’s nearness, and in a second, she leans on the wall next to the window, her stare focused on me, although I stare at nature’s display, which calms the storm inside me.
A storm coated in fury, anger, and pain rears its head whenever anyone mentions my grandmother’s name or the idea of being in the same place as her.
“If you don’t come, I’ll understand,” Lila whispers, tearing me away from the rain that slowly transforms into a heavy downpour, cascading drops that splash over the windowsill.
I extend both of my arms forward and sigh at the cooling sensation soothing my skin as if they’re an antidote to the old wounds still managing to unsettle me.
However, the old hag has taken so much joy from my life already; I won’t let her turn me into a joy stealer too.
Perfection. Always strive for perfection and nothing else. The Hughs aren’t mediocre. Do you hear me? If yo
u choose a brush, then be the best or leave art.
For some unexplainable reason, Lila considers me a friend and has welcomed me into her life, allowing me inside her close circle, and despite being unable to return the sentiment, I do not wish to hurt her feelings.
Maybe this tiny step will be a stepping-stone on the path of my healing and learning to coexist with other people without expecting them to hurt me someday.
Curving my mouth into a smile, I wink at her. “I wouldn’t miss seeing that man of yours in a tux.” My giggle ping-pongs between us as she hits me playfully on the arm, although her eyes still seem to search for traces of sadness in me. “I’m okay.” She’s never asked me why I decline all donations my grandmother has tried to make to my galleries or to help an artist under my wing.
Because she always has an agenda, and it usually includes me being indebted to her, which in turn, she can use to her advantage. I’m done letting her run the show.
Nothing compares to freedom.
Besides, in all the years since I ran away from home and found solace among the artists in Paris before returning to New York, we never stumbled on each other or crossed paths.
Drinking in the view in front of me one last time, I step back and wipe my wet hand over my jeans. “I’m going back to work now.” She opens her mouth to say something, but I beat her to it. “Yes, the first dress fitting is on Friday. I’ll be there.” Which means I have even less time to prepare all the paintings before the show.
“One more thing.” Lila snaps her fingers again, and I frown at her, hating all these interruptions.
God, this friendship business is seriously hard. How do people socialize so much and still manage to work?
“What now?”
“Eugene convinced one of his friends to pay for the education of the next scholarship winners.” Over the next two years, in each spring and fall, we’ll host special competitions among young artists between the ages of eight and fifteen that require them to create three pieces on different subject matters. We’ll pick two winners who will receive a full-ride scholarship to any school or college they choose, so long as they continue to create beauty.
