Page 49 of Reckless

Knock, Knock.

The sound reverberates through the space, breaking the bloodthirsty spell we’ve fallen under and I freeze. I had given strict orders none was to disturb us, which meant whatever this was was urgent enough to interrupt.

A spike of panic touches my heart and I crush it with my foot.

It wasn't her. It could be her.

Hands shaking with adrenaline I reach for the metal door, yanking it open,

“What is it?” I spit, impatience screaming in my tone.

“It's the bodyguards. They were found unconscious at St.Helens Mental Rehabilitation Center.” My heart squeezes and for a moment the panic is enough to send me immobile as the very words I dread hearing are spoken.

“We lost the girl.”

Chapter 16

Rose

Paintings are sad.

Pathetic.

Interesting.

They haunt me, call out to me. Some in hushed voices, others in deadly silent whispers or soft humming notes.

Some scream.

Split my ears open and make me want to bleed from the inside out. I always liked the paintings that screamed. They always made me feel too much and yet not enough.

But most of all I liked the paintings that made me cry.

So maybe that's why I always find myself here. Sitting on the same bench, staring up at the same painting, with the same tears staining my bare cheeks.

There was just something about the smeared water lilies that called out to me. The sheer size of the painting alone is enough to steal my breath and make me forget I could breathe. And then there were the brush strokes carelessly done with precision. I liked how it made me forget. Forget where I was and who I am.

A failure.

A broken leaf drifting in the wind.

Trying to outrun my problems after I’d been cast off.

I wondered what Monet thought when he started to go blind. When he realized the one thing tethering him to this earth, his ability to paint, was going to be taken away from him. And regardless of the fact that his gift of sight was being plucked from him with greedy hands he still painted.

I wanted that.

That blind courage.

I wanted it but it could never be mine.

The hospital had called me twice since I left in my fit of anger. Both times they left messages. Both of which are currently left unlistened to and unanswered in my voicemail.

Throat burning I took another sip of the spiked Capri Sun I had packed in my purse. The vodka mixed with the fruit punch warmed my blood and calmed my mind. The Capri Sun was good for tricking the security guards and excellent for numbing my insanity.

Plus who didn't love a bit of day drinking at two o’clock in the afternoon?

Colors start to blur and I look up at the painting for the second time and I almost think it looks better this way. No clear edges and no definition as to what I was truly looking at. Almost like I could pretend the oil swirls were a dream of my own making.

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