Page 42 of The Silent Night Stalker
I drop my head as my body is filled with complete, unfettered joy and satiation.
“I love you,” I whisper. I’ll keep telling Enzo that until one day he tells me back, and I don’t care if it takes me saying it a million times. Two million times. Time isn’t relevant. He’ll always know how I feel. I don’t care that we just met because I know without a doubt I’ll never meet someone or have someone like Enzo again if he leaves me. I will doanythingto make him stay.
And just like he’s done countless times, he grabs my face with two hands. I open my eyes to find him looking at me strangely. Not in a bad way necessarily. More like he’s confused or processing. About what, I don’t know.
“I’ve never known anyone quite like you, Little Bird.”
“I-Is that a bad thing?”
“No, baby. That’s not a bad thing.”
Then he kisses me again, forcing his tongue into my mouth. We consume each other as if we haven’t eaten in years. His fingers dig into my jaw, and mine dig into his shoulders. I love that he doesn’t care that I’m covered in his piss.
For the first time in my entire life, I feel whole, like the real me has finally come out of the shadows to live again.
After we’re dried off and dressed, Enzo goes off to the kitchen to make breakfast and coffee, leaving me to explore his home some more.
The door to the second bedroom is closed. I grab the knob and look behind me to see if Enzo sees me. He doesn’t, so I twist the knob and slowly push the door open. As soon as I do, I’m enveloped in an explosive world of color and beautiful chaos. My jaw literally drops.
“Oh, wow,” I whisper. I had no idea he was an artist.
There are paintings everywhere in various stages of completion, but it’s the canvas on the easel in the middle of the room that catches my attention. I walk over to it and hover my fingers over the colorful texture of the man’s face.
Myface.
It looks just like me, even if it’s an abstract painting.
A strong emotion tugs out of me that I can’t describe. There’s sadness in the face, but the colors are full of life, contradicting the emotion, like the colors represent hope. I could be interpreting it all wrong. I know absolutely nothing about art.
Why did he paint my face?
I don’t even think I have one photograph of myself. No one’s ever thought of me beyond hurting me or ignoring me.
“Do you like it?” Enzo suddenly asks behind me.
I jump out of my skin and quickly turn around. “I… I… Uhm, I’m sorry. I just…”
“It’s okay, Con. You can look. I’m kind of proud of my work.”
“It’s so beautiful, but… why…”
“Why did I paint you?”
I simply nod and twist my hands together, still unable to process all the conflicting emotions. “Yeah.”
He shrugs and walks into the room, shoving his hands into his jeans. “I don’t know. I just had an urge to, so I did.”
“It’s so… I love it.” God, my words are so inadequate.
“It’s not done yet.” He waves a hand across the room in a sweeping motion. “As you can see, I have a lot of unfinished pieces.”
“You should be famous.”
He laughs and pulls me against him. “That would be nice. Maybe one day.”
“I feel immortal now.”
Enzo laughs harder. “Well, technically, you are. You can have it when I’m done, if you want.”
