Page 3 of Rivals
When she looks at me, it feels like she sees me too closely. She sees the beast raging because I can’t produce things as quickly as I need to. I can’t bleed out on my canvas quickly enough to satiate it. She’s like that, too. I don’t have to talk to her to feel it, to know it. The painting she sold for a pretty penny was one of the most painful pieces I have ever seen. I felt that pain down to my bones, and I was looking at a picture of it on my phone.
I don’t know how she sold it.
I would have burned it.
But now, it’s her against me. The other contestants won’t make it. I’m not saying that because I’m full of myself. I know what I’m up against. I’ve seen their art, and it won’t pass. Revna and I are the only real contenders here, and I will be in the MoMA. The beast wouldn’t have it any other way.
So come on, little bird, do your worst. Show me your beast so mine can consume it.
Chapter 4
Revna
Thismanisliterallysneering at me from across the room. There are short walls to create individual spaces. Other than that, it’s an open space, and anyone can see anything. I can feel his eyes on my back as I stare at my white canvas. It’s probably because he knows I’m his only competition. I chuckle to myself. I think that’s a compliment. That’s what I’ll call it.
On top of figuring out what I want to do, I’m already thinking of how I need to beat Lachlan. How can I anticipate what he’s going to do? I think it’s possible because I know him, he is like me. I saw through his painting everyone loved. I saw it, and he knew I did.
He can’t force it, either. Either it will come or it won’t. Some artists were known, and still are, to use drugs to induce inspiration. It’s a fifty-fifty thing for what you will get. It could inspire brilliance, or you end up drawing a stick figure, thinking it’s the next Mona Lisa. Even though she’s beautiful, I don’t think she’s all that great. When people see her in person, they are disappointed because, well, the girl is basic. But I need a leg up from Lachlan. I need to figure out how I can get something good out in time to beat him, and I hate to say it, but the drugs could give me that. Regardless, I can’t afford them.
Wait, I can. But that would just be stupid. Right?
Right.
I put the additional money I didn’t use from the sale into savings. I promised myself I wouldn’t touch it. It’s the rainy day fund I’ve never had. And the way my life is, that rainy day is bound to come sooner rather than later. I would like to make it easier for myself in the future than it has been in the past. So I’ll pretend as if it’s not there. Granted, it’s only about two thousand dollars, but that’s more than I’ve ever had in my bank account.
I check my phone and notice my shift starts in thirty minutes. I’ll have to pause this session for now. I grab my things and head out the door to the diner. Hopefully, I can make some good tips so I can eat decently this week.
***
It’s been almost four weeks since the competition was announced. I decided to come back to my painting after my shift this morning. I started and then gave up weeks ago, and I’ve been avoiding it ever since. It’s time to face the music. I need something, and I have less than twenty-four hours to do it.
I’ve only seen Lachlan in passing, coming and going from the large space we are forced to share, but I haven’t seen any of his work. That could mean anything. He could be working on it at home, or he also hasn’t come up with anything. I hope it’s the latter. Regardless, I needed inspirationyesterday.
The white canvas stares back at me in my space in the studio. I’ve been staring at it for hours, willing something to come to me. Maybe I’m thinking too hard. Maybe I should grab a brush, go with the paint that calls to me and jump in. But I keep hesitating. What if it’s the wrong color? What if it won’t show well? What if it won’t communicate what I want it to?
I sigh and look around. It’s only me in here, and everyone else has gone home. The canvas is screaming at me, making my ears ring. When I’m stuck, I get angry. Then the anger sits there like a lump in my stomach, souring any other possible inspiration that might come.
Shoes shuffle against the floor, and of course, the one person I don’t want to see walks through the doors to his space. Watching him look at his phone and stroll towards his area, I realize he doesn’t know I’m here. I turn to go back to my work because frankly, I don’t care if he knows.
“Oh.” His feet stop.
Turning to address him, I find Lachlan staring at me with his stunning green eyes, and my heart jumps.Stupid heart.I don’t want to hear it. “Yes?” I ask, hoping that my tone pushes him away.
“I didn’t think anyone else would be here at this time of night,” he says, his eyes scrutinizing every part of me. Suddenly, I feel exposed. Yet his posture is relaxed, and I’m not sure what to make of his body saying two different things.
Turning to face my canvas again, I say over my shoulder, “Well, I am so...”. He huffs, and I hear him walk away. I look around, and no one else is here. My lungs take a full, deep breath. I always feel like I can’t breathe around him. I swear it just fuels my hatred for the man. The rapid beat of my heart is convincing me that it’s anger because it couldn’t possibly be anything else. We have never gotten along, it’s not possible. We’ve butted heads and argued about everything from art history to modern interpretation. We are oil and vinegar.
The clock feels like it’s sitting in my ear, and the pressure is only increasing. I have to dosomething. A painting this large with layers in between will need a couple of days to dry. Which means I should have started it the day after they announced the competition. They gave us a month before the first presentation, and I waited for inspiration that didn’t come. Even though a month is ridiculous, in and of itself, timelines can screw you over because then it feels rushed. The little bit of confidence that Imighthave had in it is tossed out the window. It’s hard enough presenting your art to strangers. It seems like Lachlan is in the same position I am.
I take a chance and swipe the black that seems to match my feelings over the canvas. Then the green. I splotch it around the canvas, and it’s beyond abstract. It doesn’t really have any center point or purpose to the strokes. I mix a light purple, not quite lavender, and then put it in the top corner. I swirl it around on the canvas, then take some extra water and spread it a little bit more, thinning the paint. It drips down the canvas to the end. Sighing, I set my brush down and stare at the trash I created.
Maybe I just need synthetic inspiration to get me there. I don’t want to do it, but it feels like I have no choice. I text a guy from school who knows another guy who can provide clean Aurora Borialis or OBA. Yes, an oxymoron. But it means I won’t die five minutes from now because it’s laced with something it shouldn’t be. I mean, come on, that’s bad for business. It’s something relatively new on the street, a cross between X and LSD, and it’s good for freeing the mind. It’s worked for me in the past, and I’ve already used my stash.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I glance over at Lachlan, and he’s doing something, but his canvas is still blank.Good.If he doesn’t have anything to show for it, then awesome. The guy tells me to meet him a block from here. I grab my bag and head out the door. Hopefully, Lachlan won’t be here when I get back.
Chapter 5
Lachlan
