Page 80 of Painter's Obsession

Byron

Months later…..

“Hello, good afternoon. My name is Byron Lopez, and I’m a survivor.”

My voice cuts through the room, steady yet heavy with the weight of what comes next. The dozen or so men seated in a circle look up at me, their faces a mosaic of pain, curiosity, and quiet understanding. Each of us has a story. Mine is one they already know—at least, the version the media told.

“Most of you know my story,” I continue, clasping my hands tightly, the cool sweat on my palms grounding me. “How I survived being captured by the Laguna Bay Painter.”

The name lingers in the air like a specter. I feel it press against my chest, but I don’t let it choke me. I’ve said it too many times to let it crush me now.

“Thanks to Ren,” I say, the name tasting bitter and cold on my tongue, “I learned to accept my truth.”

The room shifts subtly. The men lean in, sensing the cracks beneath my calm exterior. But like Ren I speak about my trauma, I will not let him win. He will not destroy me.

“I don’t know if I identify as bisexual or if I need to label myself at all,” I admit, glancing down at my lap. “But what I do know is that I’ve stopped running from myself. I’ve stopped pretending the scars don’t exist, even when I still feel like they define me.”

My voice softens as I glance up, meeting the gaze of a man with deep-set eyes across from me. “I hope that by sharing my story, I can help bring awareness to men’s mental health. To show that survival isn’t the end of the battle. It’s just the beginning.”

They continue listening, their eyes locked on me as I recount the days spent under Ren’s control. The room feels tight, as though even the air is holding its breath. But I don’t tell them everything.

I don’t tell them how many times I’ve gone back to that studio. How I’ve stood in the doorway, staring at the shadows that still seem to hold his voice. How the floor still smells faintly of turpentine and blood, the scent twisting my stomach and my memory in equal measure.

When the cops came, Ren’s body was gone. The spot where I saw him fall was empty, save for the dark stain of his blood. And the man I saw walking into the woods? Gone. Like smoke dissipating into the air.

But the scars remain. I wear them every day, etched into my skin, my mind, my soul.

The hour passes in a blur of words and shared pain. We talk about fear, survival, healing—or the lack of it. When the meeting ends, it feels like coming up for air after being submerged too long.

The metal chairs squeak as we fold them, the sharp clanging breaking the heavy silence.

“Hey, you. Great meeting,” Jonathan says, his voice warm, steady.

I glance over my shoulder to see him standing there, his blue eyes bright, his expression open. Not like Ren. Not those lifeless, black voids that seemed to swallow everything they touched.

Jonathan is different. An ex-con and fellow survivor, he’s been a lifeline these past few weeks. There’s no romantic pull, just an understanding that doesn’t need words.

“It was a great turnout,” I reply, my hands tightening on the chair rack. For a moment, I watch him. He feels solid, present. Real.

“You’re going to do great in Montana,” he says, stepping closer. His arms open slightly, hesitating. “Is it okay if I hug you?”

For a second, I freeze. Ren’s hands flash in my mind, delicate and cold, his touch burning through the fog of memory. But this isn’t Ren. This is Jonathan.

“Yeah,” I say softly, nodding.

The hug is brief but firm, grounding instead of suffocating. It feels… safe.

I nod, tears stinging my eyes as I let Jonathan’s arms wrap around me. His warmth feels steady, grounding, and for a moment, the cracks in me feel less sharp.

“Thank you for everything,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the weight of my emotions.

He pats my back gently, his touch careful, deliberate. “No problem. Thank you for allowing me,” he replies, his voice low but sincere.

When he pulls away, his gaze lingers for a moment before he steps toward the door. At the threshold, Jonathan looks back,offering me a small, reassuring smile and a casual salute before disappearing into the night.

For a moment, I stand there, frozen in the quiet of the room that became my sanctuary. The folding chairs, the faint scent of stale coffee, the echoes of voices sharing pain and resilience—this space stitched me back together, piece by piece.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, pulling me from my thoughts. Gabriela’s name flashes on the screen, a comforting reminder of the promise I kept. Not only did self acceptance come from my time with Ren but thanks to the trauma we both endured we were able to sue his estate and won. The first thing I did with the settlement money was send her away, giving her the chance to finish school far from the shadows of our past. Now, she’s waiting for me in Montana, at the ranch we bought together. It’s small but perfect—large enough for both of us and the animals she’s dreamed of having.

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