Page 4 of The Blue Rose
“First, uncross your arms; you’re not a child.”
I uncross my arms, glaring at my phone and silently cursing her for knowing me so damn well.
“Okay, now step away from the painting and try looking at it in a different perspective.”
I step back, trying and failing to look at it differently. “It isn’t working.”
She sighs, “Babe, give it some time.” She is silent on the other end letting me stew and stare at the painting, then says. “I think it is time for some hyping up”
I can hear her smile through the phone as she yells, “Who are you?”
I’m silent, in no mood for hype time. Anytime one of us is having a bad day, frustrated, or just done with life, the other hypes you up. A way to encourage and remind you it’s not the end of the world. Today it is my turn to be hyped. I groan, stubbornly refusing to join in. I just want these fucking colors to do, what I want them to do.
Jessica blows out a breath and says even louder, “WHO ARE YOU?”
I laugh a little, finally giving in, and say, “Serena Raven!”
“I can’t hear you!”
Closing my eyes, cupping my hands around my mouth, I yell. “Serena fucking Raven!”
She yells back, “And who is Serena fucking Raven?”
Doing a little dance, I holler back, “A badass bitch who can paint the hell out of everything!”
“That’s right! And what is she going to do?”
Pointing at my canvas, I say, “Figure this shit out and create a masterpiece.”
“Fuck, yeah!” Jessica says, with more vigor.
“Fuck, yeah!” We both start laughing, “Thanks, Jess, I really needed that.”
“Of course, babe, that’s what I’m here for; I’ll always be here.”
“I know, and I love you for that, but…”
“But you figured that shit out and are going to resume your painting.” She says it as more of a statement than as a question.
I give a little smirk, “Exactly.”
“I love you, babe; send me a picture when you’re done, and call me if the colors start being assholes again.”
“You know I will, I love you, too.”
“Laters.”
“Laters.” I hang up and go pick up the brush I threw across the room. Sitting back on my stool, and resuming the music to center myself. “Don’t You Want Me Baby” comes on, and I lose myself in my work.
Painting has been the one constant in my life for as long as I can remember. Everyone has left me in one way or another, aside from Jessica; I know she willalwaysbe there. But painting, painting is my everything. It is how I pay my bills,- It’s my hobby, and my way to decompress. I usually know exactly what I am going to paint the moment the brush is in my hands, but sometimes, only with my commissions, I feel lost. I don’t connect with the piece in the way I need to. This piece especially, at least, not until Jess hyped me up, and now I know exactly what I want to do with it.
My phone dings, alerting me of a new article on ‘The Morbid Monet.’ I have my phone settings set to a certain ringtone when he strikes again. That little ding lets me know a newspaper will be coming out tomorrow for me to add to my collection.
This will make thirty two. I can’t believe they still haven’t caught him.
Ever since he started his killings, even before he was named Salem's notorious serial killer, I always felt drawn to him. The way he lays his victims to rest, how he poses them always outside, there is just something beautiful about it. He never touches them, the article says, just tortures them and removes their clothing, painting on a new set of clothes.
Most would be terrified, especially since all of his victims are thicker women. I should be scared to even leave the house, but I’m not. He fascinates me, and if I were to come face to face with him one day, I don’t think I’d run.
