I stood at the entrance of the door, the only place that makes me feel alive and happy, staring at the room. Everything looks dark, nothing but shadows from the little street lights. I turned on the switch, and the once muted room came alive, got a voice, and dismissed the shadows, rendering them homeless.
I stared at the four cardinal points of the room, scrutinizing it like a lustful fellow feeding its drunken eyes on its prey.
I strode in lazily and sat on the stool beside my already painted works.
I took out my brush to get busy again, to get distracted creating a design I'll be proud of at the end, but guess what—it failed, just like I imagined it would.
I couldn't get my head from thinking differently from yesterday's encounter and possibly the gala—the same gala I didn't want to attend, the same gala I had no option but to be there, the same gala that kept me up all night thinking about how it would play out, how I would face the people tied to power and wealth—people who are clearly not my class.
It was more like Damien's words clung to my brain cells, making it difficult to think of something else.
The fact that he acts like I should just do his biddings without questioning his orders annoys me. I hate being in any position where I will have to be bossed over to the point that I have no say—and funny enough, I am in one—and sometimes I feel unsafe here. I don't really know and cannot place my hand on it, but something is definitely off, something Damien feels he's taking care of.
His words began floating:
"Because she ruins everything he touches."
"The Blackwell isn't known for harmless conversations."
They're sure not harmless words either.
I screamed and threw the brush on the cardboard laid ready to be designed on, and the paints came pattering on the paper, giving it a design—a figurative one.
I smiled; the design looks beautiful.
I could read out the heart of a troubled human—got ripped and blood flowed from it, dripping down the cardboard. Huh! This design says a whole lot.
It's beautiful though. I set it aside for it to dry up.
Sometimes beautiful results come out from a messy situation. Ahh, I get the message.
Oh my God, Eva, I'm super proud of you—you're not just an artist but also a motivational writer now, or should I say a speaker? That's nice. I laughed hard.
I sat down on the floor, and somehow my head drifted to the event again.
Why does Damien act so cold?
Why is Graham dangerous or merely charming?
Does Damien really care at all?
Or is he just jealous?
Nahh, I don't think so. The words "jealous" and "Damien" in a sentence?
It doesn't even rhyme at all. I'm sure it's all in my head.
Why didn't he at least tell me he has a brother?
They don't look like they are on good terms though.
I hear the door creaking open. I didn't see who it was, but I'm double sure it's Damien—the position of the mink gallery isn't facing the entrance.
He must have finished his meeting with the Ivory Coast investors. They couldn't make it to the gala, so they scheduled a day to meet and greet.
Due to my dad's appointment, I couldn't perch this time. He'll know what to say to them about his wife on paper. I was glad because I really didn't want to be there. I don't want other words being thrown at me that will keep me pondering and racing my mind anymore.
I looked at my time and decided to do a sprint; it's been a while since I did that.
I set my timer and got back to painting anything that pops up in my head.
I sure missed my best girl. She would have been the one doing the timing—my personal timekeeper. Keep flying, my angel.
I put myself in order by fighting anything that'll make me break again. I need some happy moments.
Taking out my headset, I wore it, turned on the music, and buried myself in work. I sketched, painted, shaded, tore—for what seemed like hours—before I got something presentable.
Yay! It's me now, so I'm not surprised, though I was slow. The 30-minute timing I put myself on rang some hours ago, and I was not even almost done, so I decided to set another one.
I repeated the whole process till I gassed out.
A day well spent. I lay on the floor as the cold tiles calmed my damp skin, closed my eyes for some time, and sat up again.
I was about to touch my work of art to know how far it had dried when I saw something—
A shadow. Before I could turn, a hand tapped on my shoulder, making me fidget rigorously with fear.
I turned, and it was the cook. "Dinner is served, Mrs. Blackwell."
Her voice came up. "Oh my goodness, ma'am, you scared me!" I said. "And arhhh—that's for the title," I said inwardly. She smiled; maybe she understood.
"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Blackwell."
"It's Eva, for the one millionth time, please," I cried out.
"It's unprofessional to call you that. I'm sorry if it doesn't sit well with you, but I have no choice—or maybe we have no choice."
I burst into laughter, and she joined me.
"It's fine, ma'am. I'll eat later when I'm done," I added.
"Oh, okay. You seem a lot busy, and to be honest with you, these paintings are marvelous."
"Really?" I asked.
"Of course, Mrs. Blackwell, and I'm sure you know that."
"Thank you, you're so sweet." She smiled. "And so are you."
"I wanted to ask about your husband."
"You mean Damien?"
"Yes, sorry."
"He's upstairs, I guess."
"No, he isn't. I checked his room before coming to inform you."
"Oh, okay. I heard the door open, so I thought he came in earlier."
"That must be me, ma'am," she replied.
"It's fine. He's busy with meetings, and as for me, I'll join you soon."