Page 46 of Dark Ink

“Eithne,” Rian repeated, urgent and excited. Had he really not seen the state Stewart was in? “Come here. Come look.”

Rian’s hand extended toward me though he hadn’t stepped away from the easel. Hadn’t replaced the brush on the little ledge. Hadn’t focused his gaze. I reached out blindly for whatever was closest at hand. This time it was an ashtray. I hurled it at Rian and it caught him on the shoulder before continuing on to knock the wet canvas to the floor.

“Get out!” I shouted.

Rian stared at me, an incredulous look on his face. Like he didn’t understand what I was saying or why I was saying it.

Stewart coughed weakly beside me, sending another rush of fury through my veins.

I pointed at the front door. “Get out of here, Rian! Get the fuck out!”

“What? Eithne…” Rian said.

He didn’t have a goddamn clue. He was too busy fighting against whatever drug was coursing through his veins, burning in his lungs. Fighting to think clearly. To see. But he would never see. He couldn’t see me.

“Get. Out.”

“Eithne, I don’t underst—”

“He’s an addict!”

Stewart moaned softly and I realised how terribly tightly I had been gripping his hand. I willed myself to loosen my grip.

“You never should have given him drugs,” I said bitterly, fighting back tears.

Rian’s eyes seemed to clear. He looked at Stewart. He looked at me. He looked at how I was holding his hand. How tightly. How I couldn’t seem to let go.

“Eithne,” he said slowly, paintbrush still in hand, though loosely and at his side, “your brother is an adult.”

“He’s an addict,” I hissed. “And he was doing better before you came here.”

“Eithne—”

“I want you out.”

“Eith—”

“Get the fuck out!”

I released Stewart’s hand and stood. I grabbed ahold of Rian’s charcoal sweater. The one I’d imagined as softer. The one I’d imagined as warmer as I slid it from his shoulders. The one I’d imagined could be on the floor beside my bed one day, stained with paint.

Rian didn’t protest as I dragged him across the ruined carpet to the door. I shoved him out and he went. I caught just the flash of his face before I slammed the door shut; he had the audacity to be angry. To be fucking angry.

I bent over and screamed against my knuckles. Stewart didn’t stir. I punched the wall myself because there was nothing left to protect, nothing left to preserve. The sight of the canvas overturned on the ground sent my blood boiling. I stalked over to it. I almost resisted the urge not to look at it as I carried it to the back stairs to throw out over the filthy, stinking dumpster. Almost resisted.

As it sailed from my fingers into the ugly yellow glare of the one working light in the alley, I saw a woman in a backless black dress. She was at some sort of art gallery. She was looking at a piece of art unseen. Everyone else in the room was looking at her. She was beautiful, but she was smeared. The wet paint rippled and distorted from the fall.

She was me, I knew.

But I left her there in the dumpster. I left her behind.

There was Stewart to watch. A long night ahead. And the fantasy was nothing short of laughable.

Rian

“Everyone shut yer gobs!”

I shouted into the bustling auditorium before the door had even begun to close behind me.

---