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“You can’t go wrong with art.”
“I didn’t. I went wrong with my therapy.”
“Yourtherapywent wrong?”
“Yes.”
“How, exactly, did your therapy go wrong?”
“I painted the wrong feelings. I have lots. Or maybe that’s my body count…”
“I see. Well, we don’t ever scrap projects in here Kayla, but you’re welcome to put it to one side to return to another day, and work on something else for now. Art can be confronting and it would seem like you were pretty lost in your work there, and now you’ve taken a break you’re not ready to explore what your subconscious has created.”
What a load of fucking bullshit. I’m sure that’s written plain as day on my face, but Danny just keeps smiling at me.
“Fine.” I huff and turn away from my canvas, stretching out my limbs and deciding to check out what the others are doing.
Honeymonster is painting a beautiful vase full of sunflowers. Yeah, I call bullshit on that. No one is that fucking happy.
Night has drawn a stunning, lifelike bouquet of flowers in charcoal, not a single smudge to be seen on his paper or on him. He’s always so poised and well-put together. I wish he hadn’t fucked me from behind last night; I’d love to see his cum face. When I look more closely at his image, I recognise a selection of highly toxic plants. He winks at me and grins.
I move on to Snow’s painting. He has plastic sheeting – the kind you use to kill someone on when you don’t want to make a mess – laid out on the floor, with a large white home-made canvas laid on top. It looks like a sheet stretched around a wooden frame and stapled to it. His ‘art’ involves a lot of angry paint splatters as he dances around listening to scream-o music blasting from his headphones. He looks like a right prat, but his arse does look nice in his jeans.
Daddy Hatchet is making something out of clay, on a pottery wheel. He catches me watching him and his eyes narrow and his shoulders tense. Does he expect me to destroy his creation? I don’t know what it is, but it looks beautifully phallic to me.
“Nice dildo,” I tell him. “But if you’re modelling it on yourself, it needs to be longerandfatter.”
He tries to hide his smile but the corners of his lips twitch. His dirty, strong hands, covered in wet clay turn me on no end, and I have a sudden fantasy of aGhost-esque sex scene playing out between us while a corny love song plays in the background. Whatever. That shit issensual.
Bones is creating something abstract with molten wax, and I can’t tear my eyes away from his movements. Where Hatchet was strong and rugged with his movements, Bones is gentle, almost delicate, with the way he uses tools to manipulate the wax around on the glossy cardstock to create his desired effect. I watch in fascination as he picks up a tiny iron and holds it to his picture, manipulating the wax from something abstract into a magical wild rugged landscape.
“That’s amazing,” I say, awed.
Bones ignores me, but I don’t take offence. He’s clearly absorbed in his art. I’ve never seen anything like it before, and I stand in silence watching him for several more minutes until I sense his irritation. I slip away and move over to Ghost.
He sees me coming and throws a rag over his work to prevent me from seeing it. I pout but it’s wasted; he won’t meet my gaze.
Sighing, I return to my easel and think about what I want to do next. I don’t want to continue the blood painting because I can’t decide on the main subject matter. I’m torn between wanting it to be Doctor Satan or Snow. Fucking dick. How dare he spike my food and try to drug me. Well, not even try. He clearly succeeded in doingsomethingto me, but I shudder to think what the full effects of that small metal square would have been if I’d ingested it.
I’m actually grateful to Honey for getting me to the medical room so quickly and for whatever shot the nurse administered that had me feeling fine after a short nap.
Doesn’t mean I don't want to kill Snow though.
Feeling frustrated, I grab a sketchbook and a pencil and close my eyes. It’s silly and I’ll probably just make a mess, but I just let the pencil guide me for a few minutes. When I open my eyes, the outline of something is taking shape and I grin to myself, knowing exactly what I want to create.
As I work, I get lost in the drawing. It’s like I’m in a trance, and nothing in the world matters except the paper in front of me. I add more and more detail, working on the shadows and highlights until it starts to actually look like something.
I hold the sketchbook at arm’s length, admiring my work, just as Danny announces that the session has come to an end.
It’s not perfect, but it’s definitely something I can be proud of. I turn to show Honeymonster, but he’s already gone. I guess I got so lost in my painting that I didn’t even notice him leave.
I look around the room and realise that I’m the only one still here. But didn’t Dannyjustsay the session was over? How can they all have left so quickly?
“Where did everyone go?”
He shoots me an apologetic look.
“They left when they were done.”
