Page 3 of The Painter and His Poet

A woman, definitely.

I’ve heard, and dissected enough voices that I’m pretty certain I’m correct. The pitch and intonation is uniquely feminine, it’s bone-achingly chilling. Fuck, her voice is both light and angelic, yet rich and smooth, darkly devilish. It’s a catastrophe of possession, a cacophony of emotion, a symphony of sound that engulfs every single part of me.

My reaction is bone-deep, and I feel my body vibrate with the uniqueness of her voice. It’s a voice that’s so pure, so filthilyperfect that the delicate notes, the soft, sultry cadence is like a beacon of light drawing my attention like a comet ripping through the pitch black of night.

I don’t hear the words, yet Ifeelthem, Iseethem, translated into a language only I can comprehend. Perfect notes of colour trip through my nervous system, making my skin itch and my cock ache with a mixture of intense pleasure and indescribable pain.

Blinking back the flood of colour, I take a drunken step towards the sound, following it towards a dark alleyway caught between two tall brick buildings. My palm slaps against the rough brick as I force air into my lungs, bracing myself against the overwhelming desire to seek out the owner of such a voice. I sway on my feet. I become rock hard, brutally turned on,mindlesswith need, the need to seek out the owner of such an incredible voice, the need to paint, and more surprisingly, the sudden overwhelming need to fuck.

Never in my life have I had that kind of reaction, so uniquely sexual. It pulses low, a heady feeling that makes my cock ache. Around me, the colours are so bright, so vital, so vivid and pulsing and alive, and try as I might I can’t find it within myself to search for my headphones and replace them back over my ears to block out the sound.

It’s too late now anyway. I’m already too far gone.

With colours weaving and twisting at the corners of my vision, I stumble towards a red neon light blinking up ahead.

Smokey Joe’sit says.

I don’t know anything about the place, but I can guess well enough that it’s an establishment on the seedier side given the hidden, tatty entrance, and rough-looking doorman who looks like he’s just snorted several lines of coke.

“Evening,” the doorman drawls as I approach, eyeing me with disdain, his sneer doing nothing to put me off fromentering. Neither does the thick smoke that seems to roll out of the entrance like mist across the ocean.

Tethered as I am to an invisible force pulling me towards her, I’m helpless against the need to lay eyes on the woman whose voice is a leash of colour drawing me forwards.

“Evening,” I mutter in response, my voice hoarse as my gaze flicks behind him and into the darkened hallway beyond. Pulses of colour gather motion as the faceless stranger with the voice of a fucking angel continues to sing somewhere deep inside the club.

The doorman lifts a brow, his sneer turning into a knowing smile. “You high?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Are you?”

“No,” he scoffs, very clearly fucking high.

“Then neither am I.”

Which is debatable, frankly. I might not have inhaled coke or downed Molly, but I sure as fuck feel as though I have. I’m wired. Alert in a way I haven’t been in so long. The doorman nods, giving me another once over, before shrugging and stepping aside.

“Knock yourself out.”

I don’t bother to reply as I step over the threshold, shoving a twenty dollar bill at the woman seated behind the entrance kiosk as payment for entry. She eyes me with interest, but I barely take in her features let alone mumble a response as she grabs my hand and stamps it with black ink.

“Enjoy!” she trills, her voice lost beneath the pounding of my heart and the throbbing colour, pulsating all around me.

Ripping off my beanie hat, I cram it into the back pocket of my jeans and swipe a shaky hand through my rain-slicked hair, then stalk towards the top of the stairs that leads to the caverness well of noise. Even though her voice is fucking angelic, I feel as though I’m about to step into Hell despite the colourwrapping around me in ribbons of kaleidoscopic light. How can something so beautiful feel so deadly? My heart skips in warning. A voice somewhere deep inside tells me not to enter, to turn around, to leave, that whoever this voice belongs to is someone who’ll be the death of me.

“Fuck,” I mutter, barely able to hang on to my motor functions let alone my ability to think straight or make a cognisant decision.

I’ve never been more affected. Grossly overwhelmed. Utterly consumed. I know myself enough to know that this is going to end in one of two ways. A week from now, I’m either going to be covered head to toe in splatters of paint, a masterpiece on canvas before me, my body exhausted, my soul momentarily free, or I’m going to be surrounded by a mess of unfinished canvases, unable to capture what I see, frustrated, overwhelmed, trapped, fucking depressed.

Neither outcome prevents me from descending into the bowels of the club as I step into Hell, or perhaps it’s Heaven, depending on how you look at it. Either way, my body makes the decision for me as I trip down the stairs and stumble into the club.

TWO

HARLOW

Gripping the mic, my fingers wrap around the cool metal as I stare out into the darkened club and prepare to sing the last song of my set. Aside from a couple making out in a booth at the back of the club, a group of obnoxious men chucking back shot after shot, and the bartender serving a lone man a drink at the bar,Smokey Joe’sis decidedly empty.

Not that it matters.

I don’t need a captive audience to sing. I’m not here for praise or recognition. In fact, I abhor it. It’s why I use a pseudonym to hide behind. Right now I’m not Harlow Richards, daughter to the famous Hollywood actress Melody Richards, I’mFriday Love. A name inspired by my favourite song by The Cure.

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