Page 66 of Scarred (Russian Sinners 2)

“This goes through the end of high school as strictly an all-girls school,” I started explaining. “Whatever school you choose, you don’t want to have her switch later. I went to an all-girls type of school for six months in high school in the afternoon. It was like an extra-curricular and we had dorms there. There is more trouble in all girls’ schools than mixed public schools.”

He raised his eyebrow. “Is this the school for etiquette?”

I looked at him in surprise. “How do you know?”

“Anastasia mentioned it. You and your friends got expelled.”

I smiled thinking back to that time, before everything. “Yes, and trust me, what we did wasn’t the worst that happened at that school.” It felt odd to have input for something that wasn’t my business and I couldn’t even have an input on my own engagement. “Society is made of men and women. Might as well teach her how to handle both instead of secluding her to only one gender. That would be my recommendation.” I tried to frame my suggestion on the school type for Tasha.

He nodded seriously. “I was thinking something along the same lines.” He turned to Tasha. “How about we take a look at two more schools in the area before we make a decision?”

I could tell Tasha wasn’t heartbroken so that was good. We went back to the house and Nikolai excused himself having to deal with work. Tasha had classes with tutors, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Nikolai had one room all the way in the back of the house set up for my temporary studio. I headed back there. As soon as I walked in, the unique smell of wet canvas and paints invaded my senses and my world shifted.

I helped Tasha make a painting a few days ago. She wanted to gift it to Nikolai. She did a pretty good job, although she told me dancing was more her thing. I helped her with the lines and then she chose her own colors to paint the rest.

I sat down, looking at it. It was the first time in almost six months that I picked up a paintbrush to paint... truly paint. I had been messing around with sketching or painting flowers, easy things that didn’t require images from my mind.

Granted, I only did it to help Tasha paint something. Painting as I knew it stopped the same time the last one-on-one encounter with Malcome occurred. It was as if something inside me, that was the crucial part needed for my painting, died. I tried to paint something afterwards, but all that came out were dark and disturbed images. I destroyed each one of those paintings and then stopped all together.

It was scary to try it again. What if the only thing left in me to paint was dark and disturbing? I didn’t want that to be my only creation. Painting was always my happy place; painting allowed for escape from the cruel realities. But lately it wouldn’t allow me that relief anymore. So I stuck to meaningless drawings. I didn’t want to lose my form because it certainly seemed I had lost my light and creativity.

I picked up a brush laying neatly in the box next to me. It felt familiar between my fingers but yet strange. I played with it, shuffling it around between my fingers but remained sitting while the blank white canvas stood waiting.

The images in my head weren’t pretty so I was sure whatever I painted wouldn’t be either. That was usually how it worked. I saw an image in my head and it translated onto canvas. But the images in my head were disturbing. Even thinking about last night with Nikolai couldn’t erase those images of pain, degradation, and humiliation with Malcome. It was as if he broke something inside of me.

I wasn’t sure how long I sat there, staring at the white canvas. I didn’t even mix the paint; I didn’t even attempt to start. The images I had in my head were vivid enough; I didn’t want them I realized.

The door cracked open and I raised my head expecting Tasha but was surprised to find Nikolai.

He came over and sat next to me. “Are you hiding?”

No, I wasn’t hiding. I’ve been trying to get my inspiration back, unsuccessfully. Nothing was coming to me but sick, dark, and twisted images.

“You know, I haven’t really painted anything in almost six months.” I answered instead, my eyes turning back to the blank canvas.

“Why?”

I stared at that white canvas waiting for a splash of color but the only colors in my mind were black as a starless night and blood red. Everything I wanted to paint was enveloped in darkness and blood.

I turned my face to Nikolai, so close to me. I remembered my fingers itching to paint him when I first saw him. They still did. I wanted to trace it with my fingers but it felt too intimate. Maybe he wouldn’t allow it.

“I don’t like what’s in my head,” I muttered, turning my head back to the canvas. A blank canvas was better than what came out last time. “I painted something six months ago after-”

I cut myself off. I was going to say after Malcome raped me. In my mind it was rape but if it was why didn’t I scream; why didn’t I fight?

“After?” he urged me to continue. I wanted to spill it all. I was choking on all the darkness inside me but words just wouldn't come out.

“I painted something six months ago but it wasn’t my normal work,” I continued instead. “It was dark. So I burned it.”

“I see,” he replied in a soft voice. In some odd way, I sensed he maybe knew.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Nikolai

Olivia sat there staring at the blank canvas. There was so much vulnerability and sadness in her but also strength she couldn’t see in herself. Her painting was important to her, it was part of who she was.

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