Page 16 of Make Me Scream

Strung up, arms over her head, cinched at the wrists?

Caged like an animal, compressed and confined?

Bound to a chair, legs spread invitingly?

Clothed?

Nude?

Frightened?

Resilient?

By the time I reach home, I’ve decided.

Full-length, white gown. Standing up straight. Manacles around her wrists, each one chained to the ground, keeping her arms extended. Head, craned all the way back.

With her face largely obscured, I could deny that it’s Gwen, but I know the truth, and that’s enough. I shouldn’t be doing this without her knowledge. One could argue that every man undresses women in their minds, but this crosses a line.

I don’t care.

My brush strikes the canvas, etching the contours of her sublime form. The gentle curvature of her hips and breasts contrast the sharp ridges of her dark restraints. Behind her I draw a dank dungeon of cold concrete. I lighten the shading of her upper body with subtle patterning, as if to simulate rays of sunlight peeking through a small, barred window.

Finally, I draw a key above her head, suspended from a string. In her sight, but utterly out of reach.

The meaning is clear: Gwen imprisons herself in darkness. She prefers it, even though her art could lift her into the light.

Taking in my work, I frown.

It’s not right. I barely know Gwen; my depiction is based on assumptions made from examining her art, like words translated from one language to another and then a third. I could be way off-base, but I don’t think I am.

My apartment’s intercom buzzes while I contemplate the painting, Gwen and the future.

Rory’s right on time.

I head downstairs and find him waiting on the sidewalk, leaning against a cardboard box taller than him.

“Freight elevator?” he asks.

I point around the corner to the auxiliary entrance, then grab one side of the box. Together, Rory and I carry and load it until we’ve reached my apartment. We don’t speak until I’ve shut the door behind us.

“How did the restoration go?” I ask.

Rory smirks as he retrieves a box cutter from his pants pocket and proceeds to slice the open cardboard.

“Took some doing. The water damage was pretty severe. All the electronics and moving parts had to go.”

Not a big surprise.

“Did the gallery give you any trouble?”

“I slipped the cleanup crew a hundred bucks apiece,” Rory says. “Instead of putting it in the dumpster, they took it to my van. No one’s gonna miss it.”

Nodding, I sigh. So much money could have been made selling off all those pieces to Alistair Rat’s fans, but Askew had to hoard them all. If they understood Rat’s work in the slightest, they’d have realized that his true art couldn’t be owned — all they had was his warm-ups. His scribbles. The shit he made while still trying to find his voice.

Rory finishes cutting the box, revealing the item within: “Pay to Play,” my favorite from the exhibit. If any piece was worthy of salvaging, it was this one.

“It’ll work like it did before?” I ask, examining the machine. It looks just like it did days ago; who would guess it had been doused by an emergency sprinkler system?

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