Page 33 of Stained Protector

Shouting encouragement in my head, I spin around and smile politely. This is good practice to start reverting to our previous distance. Strangers and neighbors. If he’s generous, he might hire me for work later. Better yet, I hope he doesn’t sue me for rent money and emotional distress.

“You came early,” he mutters and hums under his breath. “I’m not finished with the piece yet, but it wouldn’t hurt to show you.”

He rubs his shoulder and tilts his head to crack it. The tight muscles flash under the lifted beige shirt while he ruffles his hair, a hint of annoyance curling at his lips as he stares off into the distance.

“The room is messy,” he warns as he puts his back toward me. “Lots of paint and props, so watch your step.”

Regardless of the invisible hands holding me back or the goosebumps following the path of blood rushing to my heart, I take the first step after him. His back stays turned, but he knows I’m following him to his art room, the place he brings forth vivid pieces.

The bells ring hysterically in my head as the hallway closes in, smothering me with claustrophobia.

After an excruciatingly long turn on the knob, he finally opens the tightly shut door. His broad shoulders and wide chest block the blackened room, so the smell of paint is more prominent.

He walks in with no intention of turning on the lights, and I cross my arms over my chest to curb the urge to flip the switch on.

I sniff quietly, trying to put a name to the strange smell. It’s not obvious since the wet paint permeates from the walls, but the kerosene stench toggles onto the tail of the white spirit. He uses a less pungent paint thinner, so this parting gift must be special for him to swap it.

The rumble of thunder screeches as I pinch my eyes shut, massaging my temples to ease the dizzy headache. He works with these smells, so they don’t bother him as much.

The fluorescent light from the corner lamp flickers, illuminating the huge room with two flashes and chasing out the slithering shadows. There's a wooden table against the wall with a clean canvas propped up on the stand and a row of clean brushes nicely arranged.

Then, I look down.

A crescendo rallies behind the barricaded terror as ungodly roots collide with bones and erupt into thirsty thorns. I bite the inside of my cheek, but the surging tension leaks from a hiccup. Panic thrives in my spine, fear intoxicates my numb brain, and carefree laughter calms my heart.

There is a dismembered human in the corner, limbs separated at the joints and piled on the torso of a woman.

No head, there’s no face to the woman….

It’s fake. They’re silicone props, like the ones he had at his studio. He just brought them back to his house to be used for practice and to understand human anatomy better.

I take a longer look, ready to laugh at myself for being melodramatic, but my throat seals. Shivers quicken my breath, shoving them out in short and frantic gasps as the need to scream into the void reaches a peak, but a pitiful whimper scatters brokenly across my tongue.

The birthmark on the sole of a foot.

A notification ding, and I tear my eyes from it. It’s a much-needed distraction as I fumble with reading the text message from my sister.

She eloped with her ex-boyfriend.

What?

I reread the message, dissecting the words and contemplating the linguistic point of her usual tone. From the sentence structure explaining why she’s leaving and didn’t tell anyone earlier and the alternating British and American spelling to the random periods between letters.

A selfie of her kissing the man’s hand adorned with a black ring proves it’s her, and the large banner of a store’s tenth anniversary conveniently plasters on the screen.

It has to be a professional photoshop, so I zoom in on the pixels. There aren’t any flaws. I text her, demanding that she explain whatever this is. Her response hurries back, like it was typed in advance, and tells me to not worry while mentioning her new job had decided to not hire her after the last interview. She wants a new start and hopes I can be happy for her like our parents are.

“My sister,” I stutter, my fingers shaking so much the phone drops. “She’s at home sleeping. Yeah, she told me she was coming home late and—”

“She didn’t send this,” I choke, a dry heave fumbling in my throat. “It’s ajoke.”

A warm finger traces the left side of my jaw, leisurely caressing the plump cheek as he tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. So gentle, so violent, and so disgustingly confusing. He cradles my face and pierces his smothering gaze into mine, stroking the clump of jumpy nerves under his thumb, and kisses the spot briefly.

“Of course,” he says, and my mind doesn’t register it further than the bare minimum meaning.

Levi smiles against my lips and sighs softly, the bizarre blue haze darkening in his eyes as the shadows raid through his shrinking pupils.

My heart melts into his kiss.

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