Samara stopped dead before her work, lost in her endless void, the painting a beacon of hope in the bleak, shadowy landscape.
The girl stared down at her through eyes of oil, her arms spread like Jesus revealing his Sacred Heart. Deep furrows of skin and flesh had been torn from her body and hung from her encrusted nails, still stubborn and clinging to her exposed rib cage. The heart trapped within, wet and glistening, pulsed in a slow rhythm.
Samara circled the figure, studying the dimensions, the shine of her slick skin. No light existed on this deep plain, but somehow the girl radiated her own source of illumination.
The artist paused her consideration to peer back over her shoulder. She found only darkness and for a moment became mesmerised by the abyss, all thoughts of her work abandoned.
The true face of the piece, she thought, daring something to step forth from the murk.
The light caress of a needle-sharp claw stroked the back of her neck, pricking the skin.
Samara gasped and swung around, reaching for the girl that lived in the limitless night. Her fingers closed around the narrow wooden handle of a paintbrush, the bristles wide and dripping with the purest white.
The painted girl, frozen in place, analysed Samara in turn, her open mouth almost caught in silent laughter. Her teeth, a nightmarish collection of varying shapes and sizes, blossomed between her lips. Rows of serrated incisors lined the interior of her mouth, while snake-like fangs struck out, glossy and piercing.
With her free hand, Samara reached towards the girl’s exposed chest. The tips of her fingers explored the edge of torn flesh, feeling the tacky grip of drying blood on her skin. She probed further, easing her hand inside the warm innards of the girl. Her subject remained still and silent, oblivious to this latest atrocity. Delving higher, Samara passed her hand behind the sternum. The beating heart seemed to slide onto her eager palm. She caged it with her fingers, relishing the soothing cadence.
Inside the girl’s mouth, the horrors that Samara had painstakingly created fluttered into life, creeping around the jagged teeth, and mocking the artist with taunting faces. She sensed the creatures trapped within the body composed of rich oils, the beating heart driving them out, the deep, slow drum ordering them through the dark, bloody tunnels. And the girl born of the darkness, the girl that surrounded the macabre piece, forever present, would come, shaped by the terrors that writhed and coiled from within the painted throat.
Samara drew a deep breath and brandished the wide paintbrush like a crucifix. Its power would destroy these creatures, and she had every intention of ending their ridicule. The conceited gaze of the subject, separated and safe from her anguish, would also succumb. A white baptism, allowing the truth of suffering to be free…
“Samara? What do you think you’re doing?”
Her teacher’s voice snapped her back to the art room, flooding her senses. The irritating drone from the radio, the chatter of her fellow students, and the bright glare from the overhead lights. Miss Jones was poised over Vicki’s piece, staring across in horror at Samara’s painting.
Samara touched the tip of the wide brush to the canvas, her other hand pressed against the dry paint, the detailed heart beneath her fingers.
“No, no,” said her teacher. “Just touch ups today remember. We don’t have time for any major changes.” She straightened from Vicki’s painting, muttering to her. “Excellent work. Just give me a moment.”
Samara had no idea what the teacher might do to stop her. She swept the brush over the face of the girl, eradicating her features in one white stroke.
Her teacher’s high heels clattered to a stop on the worn tiles. She stared at the painting in shock rather than disgust, the first time since its creation. “Samara! Why the hell…?”
The artist turned to her workstation and threw the brush down. Her other implements had been arranged the moment she had entered the art room. Neat, tidy, ordered. Colours arranged by group; brushes lined up in ascending size. Just one thing missing. She dug into her pocket and placed the four pieces of paper beside her pallet. The correct instruments, inspiration, and blank piece of canvas ready for the truth.
“The show is tomorrow,” said Jones, waving a flabbergasted hand and the ruined painting. “Tomorrow!”
“I only need a day,” Samara replied, dismissing her teacher’s concerns. She reached under her workstation for her black bag and took out her cigarettes. Plenty of time while the whitewash dried.
10.
The early evening bus station offered little protection from the chill, and Samara pulled her coat tighter. Standing in a line of mundane faces, all drained from eight hours at the office or attending classes, she gazed at the empty bus bay. A quick, silent prayer to the gods of public transport had gone unheard. Sharing a smoke and whinge with Lily usually passed the time, but her friend had vanished, most likely finished early and not bothered to stick around. Who could blame her in this? thought Samara, picturing a warm seat at the back of a bus, the vibrations of the engine rumbling beneath her.
She cupped her hands and blew into them, trying to generate some heat. She hadn’t bothered washing them after her marathon painting session. Various colours clung to the skin and occupied the underneath of each nail. She inhaled the opulent scent of oil paint. It had consumed the day, but her work was complete. A greater vision. A faithful vision. Now residing back in their envelope at the bottom of her bag, hidden under various pencils, brushes, and other tools, the four sketches had transferred their terrible veracity to canvas.
Samara’s own version of Woe. While the spectre crawled and tore through the Outside films, unable to belong from the pain, lashing out in violence and confusion, Samara had attempted the same through a different medium. As Woe shrugged off her human façade to her next victim, so must Samara, showing the world what lies behind the mask. She was unable to wear her heart on her sleeve, but she could expose it on canvas, and show that it beats, it lives, despite the horror it resided within.
She checked the bus bay again. No way home just yet. No bus, just the girl with the long dark hair standing alone in the road.
Samara glanced down, studying her own boots and the dark spots of ancient chewing gum that still clung to the brickwork between them. Better to do this than catch anyone’s eye, to attract a quizzical stare. She believed her energy had been invested in the painting, and that she had earned a night of peace.
Her personal vampire had moved closer still, examining Samara from the other side of the bus station glass, lurking inches from the large window. The other people waiting for the bus had no clue such a demon also stood in line…but it was only a matter of time, Samara guessed.
A paintbrush wielded like a crucifix had rid her of one fiend. Surely a dash of the holiest of water would again save her from another.
Keeping her face down, Samara tightened her grip on her bag strap and ducked out of the queue. Stepping around other commuters, who hurried to the various bus stands to escape both the cold and their day, she emerged under the appearing stars and twilight sky. A car park was nestled between the bus station and Job Centre. Beside it, the ever-burning and welcoming lights of The Scholar pub beckoned.
Someone she knew had to be in there. While she only considered Lily as a true friend, Samara felt she had many acquaintances on campus. A small college in a working-class town nurtured friendships. Hopefully a fellow art student would be in residence, and they could share their common interest over a drink. Hell, Samara realised, I’d even drink with Vicki if she bought the round. Yes. Her quiet booth, the familiar sights and smells. The same old songs on the jukebox. A little remained in her bank account, but that had come from her grandmother’s passing. Each of the grandchildren had received an even split of the inheritance. Samara had deposited this in her savings account, wanting to save it for something special, something her grandmother would approve of. She reasoned enough loose change rattled around at the bottom of her bag for at least half a Coke. She could leave her demons at the door, at least, for a little while.