Page 38 of Second Shot

I learned to hide my drawings from him. Even when the teachers at my school commented on my work, suggesting that I hadreal talent, I didn’t tell him, afraid of his anger, hisdisappointment.

And then I foundthe room.I was eleven. One of the housecleaners must have forgotten to lock it, because I’d never seen the door openbefore.

It was small, but it had large windows on two sides that were covered by thick, dark drapes. Different sized canvases perched against the wall, some finished, some half started. But it was the easel in the center, with its large blank canvas that drew me. An old palette with crusted paint sat on a table beside it, along with an assortment of different sized brushes. Tubes of half used oils beckoned me, tempting me with their bright coloredlabels.

Maybe I should have known better. But some part of me wanted to believe that the room was a gift from my father. The paints. The brushes. Secret treasures that he wanted me tofind.

The first stroke of color on the canvas and my heart leapt injoy.

I’d make him a beautiful painting, something he would be proudof.

I’m not sure how long I’d stayed there. Probably hours, because by the time my father found me, he wasfrantic.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” his voicebellowed.

I jumped, smudging an ugly red line across the field of roses I’dcreated.

“I-I waspainting.”

He barreled across the room, large and intimidating, and grabbed the paintbrush out of my hand, tossing it across the room. “Who said you could come inhere?”

“I…the door…it was open…Ithought…”

His eyes filled with more anger when he glanced at the painting I’d done. “Go to your room.Now.”

“Daddy, please,I-”

His large hand wrapped around my arm, pulling me roughly from the stool I’d been sittingin.

I cried out at the pain, but he only tightened his grip, his eyes dark andscary.

It’s the first time I’d seen that look directed at me and notSam.

“Go. To. Your. Room.” His fingers tightened, pinching my skin, before he finally releasedme.

Tears blurred my vision as I’d scurried to myroom.

Hours wentby.

I wasn’t called tosupper.

When the moon was high in the sky, and the lights under my door went dark, I knew he wasn’t coming. There was no explanation. No apology. No comfort. Justsilence.

Two days later, I walked by the room again. But this time, the door was wide open and it wasempty.

Nopaints.

Nocanvases.

Noeasel.

Just a bareroom.

He’d thrown everything away. Even the painting I’d poured my heart into. That hurt more than the bruises that still shadowed myarm.

“You okay?” Kane is standing in the doorway with Noah over his shoulder, blue eyes drawn and filled with concern. “I was talking to you. Didn’t seem like you heardme.”

“I was justthinking.”

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