Page 66 of Painting Celia

Why hadn’t León been here to help her? His betrayal wrapped around her, cold and constricting.

Why was she always so alone? What was wrong with her? All her life, she’d faced this. Her mother would never stoop to helping her, of course. And Dad had been gone.

The bridge had been easier.

“Oh,” she whispered, a raw realization dawning.

Dad could have kept trying, could have protected her from Mom’s fists and insults, could have stayed so she didn’t have this death hanging over her all her life. A worse betrayal settled in her stomach like a stone.

Her dad, looking back from the top of a bridge, handing something to her.

Shock numbed her, new understanding freezing her in place. She’d never seen it this way before. He…he’d handed her his terrible, black burden. Here, you carry this now.

Oh, how could he? It was so unfair!

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, the injustice of it all burning as sharply as saltwater on cut skin. Then her heart thudded wildly, her control finally exhausted.

Fuck all of them for failing her! León included!

She’d show them painting!

The small tube of black paint couldn’t match her boiling fury. She had more—quarts of glossy black from some pointless project. Muscles tense, her movements jerky with urgency, she knocked over baskets pulling a can from the cupboard.

The lid wouldn’t come off, but the spoon in her tea would work. As she pried and mixed, she glared at the empty white wall in front of her.

Fuck this bare blank world, too!

The room shrank as her rage expanded to fill every corner, and she hurled a spoonful of anger into the space before her. Long slashes of black appeared across furniture and wooden floor, wall and ceiling. Breathing got harder, rage burning her face. Who was quiet and responsible now?

Her breath became ragged, her skin prickling with the heat of unleashed anger. Exhilaration sang in her bones as she threw wide slashes straight from the can, ignoring the spoon entirely. She barked a laugh, hair swinging into her face. It didn’t matter. She didn’t need to see. The paint could land where it wanted.

She shouted with each swing. Screamed.

The paint ran out, and she stood still, panting.

How’s that for expressing emotions, León?

The thought pulled the plug on her anger, and her control snapped back into place. Even this she hadn’t completely done for herself. A hollow feeling settled in her stomach, the echo of her actions ringing loud in the sudden silence.

Drained, she left the spatters to dry where they landed. At least life triumphed on one wall. At least one couldn’t paint clichés when one wasn’t even aiming.

What a useless display, Celia Rose.

The aftermath of her outburst left her chilled. Closing the door on the mess, she mechanically washed her hands in the kitchen. Stoic, she pulled the meat from the oven. She cleaned the painted apology off the back doors.

She was pathetic. Good lord, she’d thrown a tantrum.

You’re impressing nobody, Celia—

Oh, shut up, Mom!

There must be something better to do than clean, right? Something smarter than her usual response? Andrew, he would talk with her, make her feel better.

But he might tell León she’d called. León would think she was looking for him. As if! She hoped she never saw that liar again!

Kelsey?

She’d been so encouraging when Celia had opened up, however ineptly.

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