Page 1 of Ruthless Desire

Chapter 1 Natalie

The jackhammer bites into the canvas with a relentless, teeth-rattling rhythm, each vicious strike a physical manifestation of the fury and anguish churning through me. Droplets of crimson paint spatter across my face, like the bleeding aftermath of my own internal wounds.

My studio pulses with a frenzied, almost primal energy as I channel every fractured piece of my being into this emerging work. Every sharp edge of metal, every bold slash of color - they coalesce into a raw, unyielding monument to the poison that’s been ingrained in me since birth.

The life I’ve somehow managed to survive, even as I continue to run from it. Even here, in this cramped, decrepit space that barely passes for an artist’s haven.

As I pause to swipe the sweat from my brow, my gaze snares on the latest addition to the piece now a twisted lattice of broken glass and hypodermic needles, bound together with strands of my own hair. An intricate, brutally beautiful representation of the unspeakable.

Just like my mother. Dazzling one moment, a dope-sick nightmare the next. I can still feel the sting of her nails tearing into my cheek, hear the slurred, venomous screams that echoed in my ears even as life drained from her eyes.

The sudden buzz of my phone is a welcome distraction, yanking me from the abyss of those poisoned memories. I drop the jackhammer and scrabble for the device, fingers slick with paint. A cocktail of relief and trepidation churns in my gut when I see the familiar caller ID.

Dad. Right on cue, ready to pull me back from the edge of my own personal hell.

“Hey, pumpkin.” His voice is a warm, honey-smooth balm, soothing over the ragged edges of my psyche. “Caught you in the middle of creating another masterpiece?”

“Something like that,” I reply wryly, casting a sardonic glance at the glorified junkyard I’ve assembled. “You know me, always elbow-deep in the guts of my own psychodrama.”

He chuckles, the crackle of static underscoring the proud affection in his tone. “That’s my girl. Channeling the tough stuff into high art. You’re gonna set the world on fire, baby. Just you wait.”

I swallow hard against the sudden lump in my throat. “From your lips to the art gods’ ears. If I could just make rent this month, I’d call it a win.”

“Still scraping by in that sardine tin in the city?” Concern sharpens his voice. “Nat, you know I’m always here if you need-”

“I’m good, Dad,” I cut him off gently, even as we both know it’s a blatant lie. It’s a reassurance I cling to like a lifeline, desperate to shield him from the ugly realities of my situation. “I’m not going to ride on your coattails. Not when you’ve worked so hard for an honest living.”

The irony of that statement makes my teeth ache. Dad may be one of the most stand-up guys I know, but “honest” is a generous stretch. No one claws their way out of the trailer park without getting a little dirt under their nails.

“Well, you just say the word and I’ll hock the Buick to get you back on your feet,” he offers, only half-joking. “I worry about you out there, peanut. You’re too damn stubborn for your own good sometimes.”

“Wonder where I got that from,” I tease, picking absently at a fleck of rust on my jeans. “But seriously, I’m hanging in there. The work is good, and I’ve got a few irons in the fire. A big gallery show coming up that could be my big break.”

“Look at you, rubbing elbows with the artsy-fartsy set!“ he crows, pride radiating through the static. “Next thing you know, you’ll be jetting off to Paris and forgetting all about your old man.”

“Not a chance,” I vow, meaning it with every fractured piece of my heart. “You’re stuck with me, Dad. No matter how big I make it, I’ll always be your little girl.”

We lapse into the familiar rhythm of catching up, swapping stories of leaky faucets and eccentric neighbors. For these precious minutes, I let myself pretend that everything is fine, that I’m not one errant check away from total ruin.

But then an offhand comment from Dad snags in my mind like a barbed hook. “Listen, pumpkin, I might be out of town for a few days on business. Something big is in the works. But I’ll call you as soon as I’m back, okay?”

“Sure, Dad,” I respond automatically, even as a queasy dread unfurls in the pit of my stomach. Dad’s always had a nose for shady opportunities, a knack for sniffing out the next big score. And his ventures don’t always stay on the straight and narrow.

“Is everything alright?” I try to play it off as a casual tease, but the words emerge laced with anxiety. “You’re not getting mixed up in anything…shady, are you?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” he assures me, a touch too breezily. “Just a time-sensitive investment opportunity. Boring grown-up stuff, you know how it is.”

“Yeah, totally,” I mutter, unconvinced. An oily, unsettling intuition coils through me, the sense that something is deeply, irrevocably off. “Well, watch your back out there. And call me if you need anything, okay?”

“10-4, pumpkin. I’ll holler at you on the flip side. Love you mostest.”

“Love you more,” I echo, clinging to the familiar endearment like a talisman against the chill prickling my skin as the line goes dead.

Alone once more with my monstrous creations, I turn back to the canvas, fingers twitching with the primal urge to create, to destroy. To bleed out every hidden wound festering beneath the surface.

But as I ready the blowtorch, a flash of my father’s face surfaces behind my eyes - etched with shadows and secrets I’ve never allowed myself to see. The sight sends a chill down my spine, my blood running cold with dread.

Shaking off the ominous vision, I throw myself back into the work, drowning in the familiar cacophony of metal and madness. Yet no matter how I try to lose myself, the gnawing fear continues to chew at the edges of my consciousness.

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