Chapter 1

Her hair flickered in the wind, golden rays of string flying from her head. A mischievous grin hid in her lips, white teeth blinding in the sunlight. Her arms were outstretched, wide apart, and ready for a hug. Her emerald eyes glinted in the sunlight and straight into me. A beige tank top covered a small, slender frame. Behind her, rolling green hills, calm and peaceful. A blue sky with not a single cloud in sight. The shadows of a tree dappling her body in a patchwork of grey and green. But then there was something more sinister. Through a shadow and under a piece of cloth, a tiny patch of purple peeked out, livid and painful. So very alien in that happy scenario. So…wrong.

Yet as out of sight as it was, it was the most obvious thing to me. It turned her from happy to sad. The tilt to her lips seemed so out of place instead. Her posture seemed stiffer, more scared. But the thing that made it so much more noticeable was the thing I noticed last; the light behind her eyes disappeared and she died right in front of me. I leant back as far as I dared on my stool, looking at my art, contemplating whatever I’d had just painted. There was a smiling girl…or was she really smiling? Even I couldn’t tell. I’d have to come up with a name for it. The expression on her face was the hardest part to do right, with only the flickering light that the crappy light bulb offered to help me see what I was doing.

At first, I’d been sketching the framework for a woman’s face, plain black and white, simple and routine. Today was just meant to be free time, after all. No works commissioned, no galleries to fill. Just another day of me and my canvas. Honestly, at first, I couldn’t even be bothered to pick up the brush and begin yet another portrait of another faceless woman, but when I’d smudged the final sketch for her face, I’d decided to just run with it. And look at what I’d made. “Mum will be happy” I thought to myself. Taking it off of the easel, I delicately walked it over to the drying rack, nearly tripping over a loose canvas roll. Dropping it onto the rack, I took out my earphones. Below me were the sounds of my sister chatting to her friends, her disgustingly high-pitched laughter ringing through the house. My studio was just a converted attic, honestly, but it was the best I’d get for now. Once I’d moved out, I’d probably get a scholarship at an art college easily, and then it was just a matter of using their facilities. Besides, I still made good stuff here.

Bending and reaching behind myself, I undid my apron, paint smearing across my fingers as they swiped across a paint stain, cursing and wiping it off on a wall. Mom wouldn’t complain about it. She never even came up; “I can’t stand the smell of paint” is what she’d said. I knew that she was lying though. I’d seen her come up many times when I was young, come up to give Dad some company. Yeah, it was Dad’s old studio. But it wasn’t like I had any other choice, and I sure as hell wasn’t letting my mum or my sister turn it into some kind of shrine, not when there was so much untapped potential in there. Every nook and cranny hid another tiny paint tube of an unknown shade which would be just perfect in a painting. Dad had scrawled tiny notes all over the wall about his own art. I’d learned how to make the perfect sun, (It wasn’t just bland yellow), how to make hair appear like it was blowing in the wind, how to texture fur. And the funny thing was, I was the only one who understood how to make those instructions come to life. It was like the messages were just for me; everyone I’d ever brought to his studio had been given a chance to recreate the instructions but only my brush ever brought a scene to life like he could. All the other artists I’d ever seen had only made watered-down versions of life, but he made life into so much more.
I’d heard his art being called surreal, genius, ultra-realistic. To him, his art was just art; the one thing in life that really mattered, true, but also the easiest thing in the world for him. For him, all he had to do was pick up a brush and begin, and he’d have a masterpiece.

I hung up my apron on the worn copper hook nailed into the wood door then opened it. Tiptoeing downstairs, I snuck past the first open door. My little sister was in some sort of fifty-way Skype call and she’d give me hell for interrupting her, and even worse if I embarrassed her, what with my scruffy appearance, my paint smeared jeans and skinny frame. I wasn’t much to look at, as far as I could tell. Standing in the bedroom mirror, I reminded myself, not for the first time, that I didn’t have it that bad. My curly brown hair ran down shaggily to my neck, loose and bouncy. That, I’d gotten from my mother, as far as I could tell, because both my sister and dad had smooth jet-black hair, my sister’s running down her shoulders in a wavy cascade. My face wasn’t that bad to look at, sharp angled and sharp chinned, high cheekbones framing hazel eyes. And I knew about bad faces; I’d been commissioned to draw plenty. Some of my artwork I’d wanted to burn, just on the basis that despite my best efforts, the portrait was still an affront to basic humanity. But I’d been paid, had kept my mouth shut and laughed about it later. It wasn’t just a matter of fat rolls and bouncing cheeks. The way I judged a portrait was on the proportions. Thick noses, big eyes, lips the size of bread rolls, they all ruined my artwork. But I’d also drawn faces so perfect I’d been jealous, beautiful in every single way. Mine wasn’t one.

“Vincent, do you want me to bring a sandwich up to you?” my mum called from down in the kitchen. Her voice carried all the way through the house and I heard tinny laughter coming from next door. My sister’s friends must have turned on her. Oh well. The perfect silence my sister wanted had already been ruined, what did it matter now?
“No thanks!” I yelled back at the top of my lungs.
“Okay, I’m off to work now! Goodnight!”

Goodnight? I looked out through my tiny window, tucked up above my head. Sure enough, the sun had already set, the first drips of inky blackness working their way through the navy blue sky. It would be a full moon. I loved nights like these, pure white moon against pure black sky. They were the perfect canvas for me to dream into. Sometimes I imagined some of my best works against the canvas of twilight. Those nights, I’d rush into the studio and begin to paint. Today though, I was exhausted, and tomorrow wouldn’t be much better. After all, I had an appointment with her. That always drained me for a few days, but at least it’d gotten easier to deal with her questions. All I needed was some sleep. I stripped off and slumped into bed. Drawing the covers over my bare chest, I shut my eyes and tried to go to sleep.