Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
He’s the reason I’m in this mess.
But there’s no way it’ll happen.
Erick’s lodged deep into my skull, lurking there even when I try to excise him away.
I paint.
I paint and paint and paint for an entire day.
More food appears, I eat it, I use the bathroom, and I paint. I sleep for a little while, wake up, paint. The sun rises, I eat, drink coffee, allow myself a short shower, and I paint.
I don’t see anyone. I don’t speak to anyone. I assume there are other people in the house—Marina must be bringing up my meals—but nobody bothers me.
Erick disappears. Not from my mind, but from my sight, from my tiny existence.
Two days pass. I’m getting delirious but I’m only dimly aware of it happening. During the third day, I finish the mother, and start on the daughter. I’m making good progress—it’s a little bit slower because I’m making sure every brush stroke is accurate, constantly referencing a blown-up, hi-res version of the original.
Materials appear, brushes get cleaned, paints are refreshed.
It happens as if by magic. I don’t question anything, I just keep painting.
My hands ache. My head feels like it might explode.
I get through three days and head into the fourth, making good progress.
The materials are right. The brushes, the strokes, even the canvas material. I’m not used to these colors and it takes a little while to build a sense for the way they spread and lay on the canvas, but soon it makes sense, it feels natural. I work, unrelenting, obsessed, like I’m slaying a dragon. Fighting it one inch at a time.
When this is over, I’ll hate this painting more than anything in the world, but for now, I still love it.
I still yearn to be a part of it.
Coffee appears. Food appears. Someone tells me to take a shower, but I ignore them and keep on going. They make me wash off anyway, and I do it as if in a waking dream.
The fourth day ends.
The sun rises on the fifth and I’m running on three hours of rest.
My face is heavy.
My hands feel like muck.
The painting is nearly done.
I’m in the final stretch, performing tiny adjustments, scouring the entire thing to make sure there’s not a single microscopic mistake. My face is so close to the canvas that I think I’m getting high on paint fumes. Maybe that’s just exhaustion.
It doesn’t matter—all I want to do in this entire world is finish the damn painting.
“You need to eat something.”
I jump, turn around expecting Marina, and find Erick waiting at the doorway instead.
I rub my eyes, thinking it’s a mirage. I haven’t seen him in five days, not since this nightmare started, and I was beginning to wonder if my sick, overworked mind made him up.
Which is stupid, since he’s the whole reason I’m doing this, and then I wonder if maybe I’m not doing anything at all and I’m actually at home in my apartment, and that’s about the time I realize I really need to sleep.
“Where the fuck have you been?” I blurt out, unable to help myself.
Seems that reaching rock bottom also means losing all my inhibitions. Good to know.
“What are you talking about?” He looks confused as he walks toward me with a tray of food. Saltines, a big bowl of soup, some tea.
Precious tea. I snatch it away and chug it down, despite the heat, which makes me start doing that gasping fish thing where I’m sucking down air and blowing it out to cool my scalded mouth. He gets me water, which helps, and when I’m finally able to speak, I pin him with a sharp glare.
“I mean, I haven’t seen you in days. Where the hell have you been?”
He still looks confused. “I’ve been here.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“Hellie, who do you think’s been bringing you food and dragging you off to bed? Who’s been shoving you into the shower so you don’t smell like a rotten pumpkin? Who’s been making sure you’re drinking water? Who’s been encouraging you?”
I frown at him. Those are great questions. “Uh, Marina.”
“I don’t pay her enough to wash your back. My god, you’re an absolute wreck. You really don’t remember any of that?”
“I’ve been busy,” I mumble, feeling stupid, because now that he mentions it, I actually do remember someone scrubbing me down and washing behind my ears, which is admirably thorough, but very humiliating. “That was all you?”
“Yes, Hellie. I haven’t abandoned you at all. I’ve been right here, day and night, keeping you from killing yourself.” He kneels down and stares into my eyes. “You’re done, aren’t you? Is that why you’re with me again?”
“I mean—” I bite my lip, staring at the painting, and for the first time in maybe a few days, I can actually see it.
The whole thing. Not the tiny details, not the pieces I’ve been obsessed over for the last few hours, but the entire picture.