Page 47 of There Are No Saints

Breathe. Take the feeling. Turn it into something.

I look at my half-finished canvas, at the collage I was so proud of this morning.

It’s not bad. But it’s also not great.

It’s just . . . safe.

Safe is pointless. Safe is an illusion.

I wasn’t safe when someone snatched me off the street. And I sure as fuck am not safe here, now, today, in Cole Blackwell’s studio.

I’m not getting the grant, that much is obvious. Blackwell is jerking my chain.

Well, fuck it then.

I take the half-finished collage off the easel and rest it against the wall.

In its place I set the larger canvas, the one that intimidated me, the one I don’t actually have time to complete.

I pick up a bucket of dark wash and I throw it against the canvas, letting it rain down onto the floor.

If this fucker plans to evict me, I’m not gonna baby the hardwood.

I’m so tired of fighting. Every time I feel like I’m getting just a tiny bit ahead in my life, something happens to slap me down again.

Maybe the common denominator is me.

Maybe I am fucking crazy.

And maybe that’s just fine. I’d rather be crazy than be like half the people I meet.

I pick up my brush and start painting with wild abandon, with vast strokes and no hesitation.

I’m Gonna Show You Crazy — Bebe Rexha

Spotify → geni.us/no-saints-spotify

Apple Music → geni.us/no-saints-apple

I think back to that night. I remember the things that I know were real: the cold ground beneath me. The agony of my arched back, bound hands, and bleeding wrists. I remember the lonely rustle of wind in the trees, the black, empty sky.

And then footsteps . . .

Lighter than the ones I heard before.

The hope that fluttered up in my chest.

And the sickening dread when I saw Cole Blackwell looking down on me.

Merciless. Pitiless. Curious . . . but uncaring.

I pick up my pencil and begin to sketch an outline on the canvas: a girl’s body, bent and bound. My body.

He can deny it all he wants. I know what happened. I can draw it clear as a photograph.

I work on the new painting feverishly, until I can hear lights switching off all over the building, people bidding each other goodnight as they leave.

I check the studio door once more to make sure it’s locked. Then I return to the painting and keep working.

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