Page 9 of Possession

“Whoa, they teach you that language in seminary?” My smile faded as his jaw clenched. He’d never made it to seminary. He’d gotten his degree and that’s as far as he got. My mother wasn’t capable of living on her own, so Kieran had put his life on hold for her. “Sorry.” My shame brought my eyes to the floor. Both of my brothers had sacrificed so much, for her, for me. “I’m an asshole.”

“At least you’re truthful.” The smile was evident in his tone as I raised my eyes back to his.

“I’ll be in the back.”

Liam was busy working on an intricate back piece and raised his chin to me as I walked by. Ronnie was picking at her talon-like fingernails as I passed her station. Kemper, as always, during down time, was sniffing around, flirting, trying hopelessly to get her attention. If he actually looked beyond her tits and pretty face he’d realize she liked girls just as much as he did. The shop was organic. It lived off the creative blood of our staff, it swallowed and breathed, it fought to survive, and Liam… Liam was the heart of this place, and as I walked past each of the stations with their tall mirrors, clean, white floors, red leather tables, and black shelves, I smiled. My therapist had been telling me for years to stop harboring shit, to see things for what they were and, since my psychiatrist lowered my doses, I’ve been able to see so much more.

The cocktail I’d been taking had made me feel like a walking corpse. But at my last visit, the doctor lowered my dose of risperidone and finally stopped the clozapine. The new script for escitalopram was really starting to help with my depression and, the longer I was on it, the easier it became to deal with the memories of Paige, of everything we’d been through. Or so I’d hoped. I’d let the painting from the other night sit on my floor for a few days, avoiding, evading the fact I’d painted something so joyful, so full of happiness, and I hadn’t even remembered doing it. It wasn’t until two days ago that I’d finally framed it, and this morning, when I woke up and looked at it, it hurt a little less than the day before.

The break room was small, with only enough room for a black futon, side table, and a fridge. I opened the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of water before I sat down. I twisted the cap and the cold water slid down my dry throat. Licking my lips, I placed the bottle on the table, and then leaned my head back into the soft cushion. I’d been thinking about Paige a lot lately, and maybe it wasn’t a bad thing.

She left you.

You hurt her.

You let her do it.

I took my phone from my pocket and opened up the music files. I pressed the shuffle button, and when the first few notes played through the speaker, my pulse nearly stopped. It was the song I’d been listening to that day in ninth grade, when I’d gotten kicked out of class for mumbling. I hadn’t even realized I was doing it, always trying to subtly quell the nagging taunts my brain kept on repeat. The teacher had flipped, called me out in front of everyone, and then told me to spend the remainder of the period in the hall. I’d been sitting on the cold linoleum, with my back against the lockers listening to music, as I’d worked my latest creation across the thick brown paper that covered my textbook when Paige, for the first time, had looked at me… with more than just a morbid curiosity.

I’d had real conversations with her before that day. She’d remind me about tests, we’d steal glances across the cafeteria, the courtyard, the classroom, but that day—it’d been the day she’d saidyes.

The Roots played with a caramel beat in my ear as I shaded the cheekbones and oval features of the girl on the corner of the cover. It was a rendition of her. Paige Simon. She was elegant: a fine line of curves, blonde hair that I was sure smelled like honey and sunshine, blue eyes that were ghostly, clear and soulful, but only for me. Only in those moments when she’d let herself see me.

She doesn’t see you.

I had to be more careful, I couldn’t get in trouble again, and I couldn’t add anymore shit to Liam’s plate. A pair of black Converse appeared against the beige floor, and I looked up. The tip of my pencil stilled. Her cherry lips were glossy as she spoke with a smile.

“I’m sorry?” I removed my headphones.

Her laugh was soft and warm and pink. “I asked if you wanted company. Mr. Ferris is a jerk.” She sat down before I could answer, and the smell of powder, cotton, and soap surrounded me.

She was wearing dark blue jeans and a light green shirt. The porcelain surface of her skin was creamy and, as she scooted closer to me, her arm brushed mine, and a shock ran up my spine.

“I lied and said I had to use the restroom, we only have like fifteen minutes left anyway.” She moved a piece of hair behind her ear, and then leaned in even closer; her eyes falling to the cover of my book. “You’re really talented, Declan.”

My fourteen-year-old hormones were raging, my fucked-up, crazy mind was spinning. I was sure this was a hallucination. I’d only had a few visual ones before, but this was all too real.

“It’s customary to just say thank you,” she said. Her smile was smart, soft, and it lit her eyes as I laughed.

“Thank you.”

“Can I tell you a secret?” Her eyes widened as she moved in, closing the electrically charged space between our arms. Her skin was touching my skin again. My heat was absorbing her heat. My throat went dry, and my heart thrummed behind my chest. “I like to draw, too. I have so many sketch pads at home, hidden in my closet, and someday…” Her voice was conspiratorial as she turned to look at me, she was close enough I felt her minty breath brush across the skin of my cheek. “I want to learn how to paint the things I see.”

I was captivated, my entire body was relaxed as I fell into her gaze. “Why is that a secret?”

“I’m supposed to learn how to play the piano, take anatomy, and become a doctor.” She rolled her eyes and leaned back, resting her head against the lockers, granting me a moment to catch my breath.

“You’re fourteen.” I chuckled.

“Do your parents plan out your life, too?” she asked. Her brows furrowed with an honest interest.

“My father can barely plan his own life beyond which bottle of whiskey he should open.”

The truth of my statement didn’t faze her. “And your mother?”

“She just hopes I make it out of high school.” My lips pulled into a sideways smile, and she shook her head with another full-bodied laugh. “What do you like to draw?” I asked.

“I like to create worlds, I like to make this boring little planet something more… surreal. I might have an obsession with Dali. We went to Florida last summer, and while we were there we visited the Dali Museum. I now find myself drawn to weird art and men with mustaches.” She shrugged, her face deadpan as if this was a normal thing to say.

---