Page 15 of Sin Like the Devil

The canvas I’m working on is a disturbing sight. Violent sprays of black, dark-green and crimson form the bleak landscape I’m crafting. It’s a horrifying scene, and in the eye of the storm, a single shadowy figure stands.

She’s alone. Trapped. Powerless to escape the endless tragedy all around her. My hand flicks, bends and swoops, splattering paint in an unrestrained torrent of previously suppressed rage.

All the emotions I spent my shower time shoving down come rushing back to the surface. I’m not sure where the two additional shadow figures come from in the background, but my hand soon creates them.

Throat parched and stomach rumbling, I barely stop to shove an apple into my mouth. Once I slip into that trance-like state of deep focus, it’s impossible to come back to reality. Not until the painting is done and I’ve spilled my guts onto the canvas.

The lights in the art studio seem to grow brighter, and I distractedly register the sun setting through the room’s bay windows. Not even the promise of dinner is enough to release me from my frenzy. It’s pitch-black outside by the time I add the final flick of paint and deflate.

Jesus.

Fucking.

Christ.

It takes a lot to scare me after all I’ve seen, but even I can admit that what I’ve created is downright terrifying. It looks like a scene from Dante’s inferno. The final layer of saturated flames on top of the greyscale shadows completes the hellish landscape.

Bleak.

Apocalyptic.

Beautiful.

Studying my work, I realise that I’ve been gently swaying to the rhythm of haunting violin music this entire time. Glancing around trying to gauge the source, it sounds distant, leaking through the partially open door leading to the corridor.

My stiff body protests as I move close to the doorway, following the melody. As it’s a Sunday, there are no classes taking place. This wing should be deserted. But a few doors down, I can see that one of the classrooms is unlocked, the door slightly ajar.

I’ve only been into the music room once. A long since discharged patient bent me over the piano and fucked me senseless during one of my hypersexual manic episodes. He was a good lay.

Curiosity drives me to walk towards the classroom. Peeking around the door, I find the room in almost darkness. The only light is from the moon, a waxing crescent spilling through the arched window and illuminating a single figure sat alone in the shadows.

The violinist.

It’s… a guy.

With an exquisite instrument tucked beneath his chin, he stares straight ahead into nothingness while playing with masterful control. I have no idea how he can see what he’s playing with such dim lighting, but the notes spilling from his fingertips are pure perfection.

I can’t make out much beyond the golden sheen of his hair that’s illuminated by the moonlight, the strands long on top and roughly shoved back from his lowered face. He’s slim but built, his limbs poised to strum the next note. I’m certain that he’s new—I don’t recognise him and Harrowdean is small enough for me to know everyone.

When the newbie hits a bad note and softly curses, I study his nimble fingers, realising his hands are shaking. It’s a familiar tremble. I’ve seen it enough in my customers when they can’t afford to re-up for a few days and go through withdrawals.

Is that why his music is so hauntingly sad?

Am I hearing the ache to shoot himself full of poison?

Hands freezing on the instrument, he tilts his head ever so slightly. It’s a subtle cocking motion, like he’s listening for the patter of approaching prey, inching closer to his hunting trap.

My heart is beating so loud, I can hear it roaring in my ears. When he speaks, his rough voice slices into my skin like razor blades. There’s a delicious raspiness to his intonation.

“Hear something you like?”

Inhaling sharply, I look around like a complete idiot, convinced he’s talking to someone else. How the hell does he know I’m listening? I’ve barely poked my head around the door.

Before I can offer a smart remark, my throat closes up. I don’t know if it’s the deep, gut-wrenching pain entangled in his music or the raw tenor of his voice, but any clever response I had dries up in my mouth.

“Well?” the violinist prompts.

He still hasn’t lifted his head. Not even a glance in my direction. Hands scrunched, my nails dig into my palms. I want to yell at him for breaking my peace when I banked on this wing being empty. Yet not a single syllable spills from my tongue.

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