The tears come quicker now, spilling from his eyes endlessly. “There’s a gun in my nightstand,” he utters. “After failing twice, I made sure the next attempt would stick.” He sniffles, rubbing at his face with both hands. “They don’t just give you a gun. You have to wait. By the time I got it, I lost my nerve.”
I can’t believe he admitted to owning a gun. I can’t believe I was so careless as to walk into this house when he owns a gun. No matter how much planning I’ve done over the years, my emotions make me reckless. Stupid.
“You came here to kill me,” Morrison says. His voice shakes, but not with uncertainty. The knife in my hand is a clear statement. A solid indication of my intentions.
“I don’t think I can do it,” he continues. “I don’t think I can take my own life. Will you help me?”
I laugh as fresh tears invade my sight. He’s asking me for help. He’s asking me to kill him. I pivot on my heels and walk down the opposite hall briskly, searching for his bedroom.
The room’s a mess. This is what giving up looks like. The bed is unmade. Clothes are strewn across the floor. Dirty dishes on the dresser, the windowsill, the nightstand. My attention focuses there and I move toward it. I tug the top drawer open and pick up the revolver lying inside.
It’s cold. Heavy. I press the release button and roll the cylinder out to verify it’s loaded. And then I turn it as I press the ejector rod, emptying it onto the bed. I pick one bullet up and place it into the gun. I turn the cylinder, ensuring the first few rounds in the chamber are empty.
In the small living room, Morrison hasn’t moved. He’s seated on the couch in the same position I left him in. I set the gun on the table in front of him. Right next to the box of article clippings.
“I don’t owe you any favors,” I explain. “But you owe me a life.”
I close the knife in my hand and tuck it into my pocket before I turn my back on him. I hear the scrape of the gun as he slides it across the wooden surface. As I near the door, I hear the first empty click.
I open the door as the second click echoes off the walls.
I pull it closed behind me and head for my car.
A shot rings out into the silent night just as my hand closes around the handle. I flinch. A dog barks in the distance.
Two down.
Twelve
Rocky
I change into a pair of pajama shorts and a t-shirt, throw my hair up in a messy bun, and then I pace back and forth in front of a fresh canvas, paintbrush in hand. I tap the brush against my thigh.
I don’t think most people would agree, or even understand, but there is so much beauty in a blank canvas. It’s so pure and untouched. It has so much untapped potential, just sitting there, waiting. It can be anything. Anything I want to make it.
Inspiration hasn’t exactly been my friend for a while now. I haven’t painted anything of worth in years. Every time I try, all the ugliness I feel inside erupts in swirls of dark paint, broken brushes, and ripped canvases.
Tonight, however, I feel that excited, tingling urge of new vision.
I use Link as my muse as I dip into red ocher. The deep, vibrant color is the best way I can represent the passion he stirs inside of me. The aching, the yearning, the desire.
I twirl the brush, twisting the stroke before easing up, and allowing it to fade at the edge. It doesn’t look like much yet, but it feels right. I grab a new brush, dragging it across a deep calypso blue. I merge it with the tail end of the red, fanning it from blue to purple.
This brush is perfect. I like the way it feels in my hand. I like the rough texture of its bristles. The size is perfect. The sound it makes as it kisses the linen is music to my ears. Everything else fades away. All I know is color. More blues. More reds. More purples. Shades of violets and soft oranges. A little black. A touch of gold. And back to red.
I use my fingers to sweep certain areas, giving them texture where it feels right.
The faint, almost metallic scent fills my senses as I spread more and more paint. I love this smell. I love the smudges of color on my skin. I love the way I feel right now in this moment.
This is who I’m supposed to be.
I don’t know how much time has passed when I finally step back, dropping my brush into the jar of dirty water.
I use the back of my arm to wipe the tinted hair from my face. I know I have splashes of color all over myself, but I don’t care.
I’m surprisingly satisfied with what I see in front of me. To most people, they’d see nothing more than whirls of different colors, blending and fading. But I know what’s there. I see the faint lines of rope, surrounding a ring. The curve of boxing gloves. The fine contours of a sculpted back. The slashes of scars that stain that back. And I see how much all of these things make me feel.