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I didn’t want to be this way, and I wasn’t. Ella Papillion didn’t hold pain
until it ate her alive. She acted out. Stole the ashes. Changed the hanger
tape.
I was an alchemist who turned hurt tangible.
Non. Again.
Fine, Daddy. An alchemist who turned pain into art.
Non. Again.
Still in my underwear, I approached the Big Blank. The red enamel was
dry, but the gloss made it look wet and fresh, like a new wound in
unblemished skin.
After fishing a razor out of my toolbox, I cut the canvas away from the
stretch frame along the edges I could reach. The bottom corners curled
away. I flipped it horizontal and finished the job, slashing the last inch of
the rectangle so hard, I gouged the wood behind it. The canvas folded in on
itself, hiding the primed side and leaving the raw linen side up.
I dragged the fabric across the studio and laid it over the cutting table.
The first thing I thought when I spread my hands on the red blotch was
how much I wanted to share my plans for the Big Blank with Logan
Crowne.
That was when I started crying.
Morning.
Our time, every day.
Me in fuzzy socks and pajamas and him in his suit.
He’d ask me how I wanted my coffee because it constantly changed. He
found that charming and him being charmed meant nothing. Charming
women were a dime a dozen when he sat at the head of the table at Crowne.
As a woman, I meant nothing. I was a hammer in his toolbox.
Non. Again.
I was a nail.
Company to keep. A body to use. A valve to release the pressure of his
dream job.
Guilt-free, because I’d told him I didn’t have feelings.