Page 32 of Surrender

I close my eyes, but the image stays there, burned into my eyelids.

It looks like blood splatter. I can imagine several corpses all dumped on a smooth, white tiled floor, blood mingling together, cooling at different speeds. Turning dark and tacky.

Fuck.

“Fox?” Cristiano’s voice is distant, somewhere far away like an echo, and he pulls me a little more closely to him.

I can’t move, though. I can’t do anything but stand there.

Why now? I’ve seen enough blood in my life. It’s just a painting. It’s not even the right shade of red for blood. But that smear, like somebody had dragged one of the bodies over it… And the drips from where blood sprayed onto the wall and traveled down…

“Yep. Sorry. Um, I need to use the restroom.” I pull away from him, pasting on a smile. “I’ll be right back.”

“Fox, are you—”

Before he can ask if I’m sure, or if I’m all right, or any other mundane question, I dart away. I don’t want to give him time to see how truly spooked I am.

I head to the closest restroom and go into one of the stalls, leaning against the stall door and breathing heavily. After a few moments, I take the gallery brochure out of my pocket and flip over to the page about this temporary exhibit. The red painting isn’t in any of the photos. ‘New artists from the last decade.’ Artist Michael Priory, age 32, born in New Bristol… Nothing about his biography stands out. No mention of dead relatives, no history with violence. Hell, his name implies he’s related to one of the state’s senators. It’s just a coincidence that he painted something that looks like my nightmares.

I’m still staring at the brochure when I hear one of the sinks turn on. I hadn’t noticed anybody else coming in. Cautiously, I peer through the small gap between the stall and its door.

It’s not Cristiano standing there, washing his hands.

I squeeze my eyes shut, take another deep breath, and head out of the stall.

The man is taller than I am, with dark brown hair that’s more gray at this point. His nose is crooked, and his expression is set in a mild scowl. Resting asshole face, I used to call it.

“Having a nice time?” he asks me, lathering the soap onto his hands.

“Yes,” I respond quietly. I glance toward the restroom door, unsure of whether I want Cristiano to show up or not. “Hi, Corbin.”

“You failed.” Corbin rinses off his hands, but he leaves the water running. “Finish the job by the weekend. I have another two lined up for you.”

I nod obediently and reach into my pocket. I take the small paper I’d prepared, and I hand it to him. He takes it without a word, and I watch as he walks out.

Maybe I’d hoped he wouldn’t actually show up. That he’d given up on me, and assumed I’d died. But I guess I should have known better.

I did know better, or I wouldn’t have asked for the date. I wouldn’t have given Corbin the note with a summary of what had gone down.

It was a nice date, though. I’d been having fun until that painting.

I quickly rinse off my face, turn the water off, and go back out to the gallery.

Cristiano’s expression is worried, and he steps forward to take my arm. “Do you want to go back home? This may have been more than you were ready for. We can order food and just rain check the rest of the date for when you’re feeling better. I’m sorry. I should’ve insisted on waiting longer.”

I force myself to smile, and I lightly punch his arm. “No! I want to keep looking around. I just really needed to piss. And adjust my cock a bit.” I hold up the museum brochure. “Did you know, the fastest way to become a renowned artist is to have rich and influential parents?”

Cristiano isn’t buying what I’m trying to sell, but he says, “That’s not new information, little fox.”

“No wonder your art hasn’t been selling, Daddy.” I answer, hooking my arms around his. “The other option is to die. If you hadn’t moved, your scribbles would be worth millions by now.”

“Next time I’ll stand there and let myself be taken out, then,” Cristiano says dryly. “Just so the world can come to know my exquisite Dadaist art.”

I lead him back to the temporary gallery, past that fucking red painting, and toward the simpler, less provocative ones. “They wouldn’t classify you as Dada anymore. You’d probably be filed under the ‘I could have done it myself’ movement.”

“Ah, but they didn’t do it themselves,” Cristiano counters. “That’s where my genius lies. If badly drawing a pipe and adding a sarcastic title underneath is so easy, why haven’t all the masses done it already?”

I laugh, the sound maybe a bit brittle, but I appreciate that Cristiano is playing along. “Exactly. Everybody can do a photorealistic rendition of a pipe, or a car, or a human. But only you can draw those terrible sketches.” I point toward a painting that apes Picasso’s style. “See? All this person did was imitate somebody else. We know your works are simple, pure, free of others’ influences.”

---