Page 19 of Lords of Ruin: Owned

“Too busy for your unfinished senior art project cluttering up my room? Or are you avoidant?” She huffs and I push my bookbag onto the floor, looking closer at the child’s face.

“New portrait?” I ask, hoping she will let me avoid her question and any other pointed questions she has about my art absence.

“Started it a couple of weeks ago. You like?” She sighs, leaning forward, eyes narrowed as she adds some details to a daisy on the edges of the bouquet of flowers exploding out of the child’s chest.

“Let me see..” I lean in to take a closer look at the little black boy's face. Despite his closed-mouth smile, I can see the glossy shine of tears in his eyes. He may be smiling, but he is clearly crying as well. “Sad boy with a bursting bouquet in a 3D acrylic paint style, what's not to love?”

She snorts, turning a perfect brow in my direction. “It’s my signature style, Willow.”

I let out a deep breath and lean against the desk beside her. Amelia Robinson is an incredibly talented artist, blending the beauty of nature with the complexities of human emotion in her paintings.

According to the Washington Post, she is “the reigning queen of emotions, born from the very soul of Mother Nature.” But Miss Robinson says she just paints what she loves, and hates nothing more and nothing less. Why she is teaching at a private high school in Texas? I don’t know.

Why she has invested so much in me as an artist? Well, that’s a bigger mind fuck than the first question.

Miss Robinson sets her brush down and wipes her hands on the stained apron tied around her waist. She tilts her head, scrutinizing me as if trying to see beyond my casual shrug. “You know, Miss Carter, every artist’s work reveals their soul. That’s why you’ve been avoiding me. You’re scared of what your paintings might say about you.”

Her words hit a little too close, and I shift uncomfortably against the desk. “I’m not avoiding you. I’ve just been...busy.”

“Uh-huh.” She folds her arms, her gaze softening. “Well, lucky for you, I’m not just a painter. I’m also annoyingly persistent. So let’s talk about what you’ve been avoiding.” She motions to the far side of the room, where my unfinished pieces lean against the wall, half-hidden behind a drying rack.

Reluctantly, I push off the desk and walk toward the series. The scent of linseed oil and varnish grows stronger as I approach, and my stomach churns with a mix of pride and self-doubt.

The first piece in the series is almost done: a faceless figure standing in a barren valley of skeletal hands reaching out of the ground. The figure is dressed in tattered clothes, with streaks of ash smudged across their undefined features and yet the only color are the bright yellow streaks of the sky.

The second piece shows the figure kneeling, pulling a flood of yellow light from beneath her feet despite the darkness that surrounds her.

I crouch in front of the second piece, my fingers brushing the edge of the canvas. The blackness surrounding the valley seemsto press in on the figure, an oppressive void that I know and yet also feel stranger to.

The next series of paintings show the woman’s chest, and a skeletal hand reaching towards her. “I don’t know where the series is going,” I mutter, pointing to where the faceless character’s fingers stretch toward the bony hand of the skeleton. “I can’t get the story right. I don’t know if she ever leaves the dark.”

Miss Robinson crouches beside me, her long braids brushing against my shoulder. She studies the canvas for a moment before speaking. “It doesn’t look wrong, Willow. It looks raw. It looks like the girl is comfortable in the dark.”

I shake my head, frustrated. “No she was supposed to escape the darkness, not welcome it. I-I don’t know. I thought I knew what I wanted to do.”

Her hand lands gently on my shoulder, and I glance at her. Her warm, brown eyes meet mine, filled with the kind of certainty I can’t muster for myself. “It means something to you. And that’s enough. You’re painting what you’re scared of, and that’s brave. Art isn’t about perfection. It’s about honesty.”

I look back at the canvas, the faceless figure’s outstretched hand almost touching the skeleton’s. My chest tightens, the weight of my doubts pressing down on me. “I don’t feel honest.”

Miss Robinson stands, brushing her hands on her apron again. “Every artist feels that way, even the greats. But here’s the thing: you don’t get better by giving up. You keep painting, keep reaching, just like your figure here. Every Friday, I’ll check on your progress. You’ve got something special, Willow, but you have to believe in it, even when it’s hard.”

Her words linger in the air, settling into the cracks of my self-doubt. I glance at her, feeling a flicker of hope, small but warm. “Thanks, Robinson.”

She winks and unties her apron, slinging it over the back of a chair. “Don’t thank me yet. We’ve got a lot of work to do. But for now, I’ve got a hot date, and you need to get home. Go on, Miss Carter. Life doesn’t wait, and neither does my man.”

I laugh softly, standing up and grabbing my bag. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” I call over my shoulder.

“Girl, I’ve done more than you probably ever will!” Miss Robinson calls back as I slide out of her classroom, my laughter growing as I start walking towards my locker.

My art lies in my honesty. That’s laughable, because art is easy, like breathing, but honesty? Honesty is hard. Honesty forces you to confront things you’d rather bury, like the swirling darkness in my paintings or the deal I made with the Chessmen.

The thought tightens in my chest like a vise. I’ve been trying to balance everything: my father, school, the art I love but don’t trust myself to finish, and the deal I made to keep us afloat. But the Chessmen don’t care about balance. They care about control.

I glance down at my hands, imagining the faceless figure in my painting, kneeling in the valley of death, reaching toward something it might never grasp and the closer I am to the Chessmen the further I get, the more I drown.

The sound of a locker slamming shut makes me jump, and I quickly turn to face my own locker. I spin the dial on my lock and pull open the door, which lets out a loud creak. As I gather my things from inside, I hear footsteps approaching from behind.Without looking, I know exactly who it is. Just as I finish stuffing my items into my bag, I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket.

Jasmine: I’m outside. Hurry up before I leave you behind!

---