Their mother, too. She suddenly found the folds and layers of her lasagne fascinating and could barely look away. “Love, please…”
“No. It’s about time this was said.” Samara swept her hair from her face, tossing it over her shoulder. She glowered at her father. “I know you wish I was like her.” The word was vinegar on her tongue. “Because she’s just like you. The protégé. I spent so much time on this, Dad, so much goddamn time. But you know what? You’re right. I should throw all this rubbish away. You’re right. Complete waste of time. I could just be a fucking taxi driver.”
Samara studied the delicate tool pinched her thumb and forefinger. Her family had avoided her for the rest of the night, which was a godsend. It allowed her to continue with her more intimate work. She dropped the tiny instrument into a crumpled envelope, safely depositing it in her desk drawer. Having changed into her pyjama pants, she pulled her long sleeves down and pressed play on the VCR. Looked like she’d be able to watch the sequel in peace after all.
2.
Samara leaned in close to the tall canvas, breathing in the smell of fresh paint. She examined the curve of bone, the result of her morning’s endeavours. The enamel shine, catching the light, before the shades of polished ivory were smeared with blood, torn flesh and skin taking over.
Perched atop a metal stool, the artist sat back and selected a Polaroid picture from the selection lined up along the easel. The butcher had been a little confused by her request but had allowed her to proceed all the same. The picture she held displayed a hanging pig carcass, the innards removed. She glanced back and forth between the photograph and her depiction.
She grimaced around the tip of the thin brush pinched between her teeth. The sight of the meat failed to disgust. How can one sit and eat a rasher of bacon or pork chop and be turned off by such images? No, her displeasure belonged to the limitations of the photograph. The heart of the pig had been removed, and it had probably been days since blood had circulated through the animal. Happy with her glistening bones on the canvas but unsure exactly how the fresh blood should sit, Samara heaved a sigh and replaced the picture. Plucking the brush free, she leaned in once more, dabbing blotches of subdued crimson where bone met muscle.
She called her final piece Outside, in tribute to the movie. To avoid plagiarising the aesthetics of Woe, the demonic antagonist, Samara had taken the time to break the character down to her core elements. Supporting her filled sketch pad of image ideas was a notebook, brimming with alternate histories and theories regarding Woe. In the films, everyone feared Woe, spending ninety minutes trying to destroy her. Samara felt sorry for the creature. It must be a lonely, living on the outskirts of society, looking enough like everyone else to blend into the crowd, yet too different to belong. This existence was both her blessing and her curse. Why would you want to be like everyone else when you had such talents hidden behind the mask? It was the hunger, Samara had surmised, that drove Woe and would ultimately be her undoing. She could never lead a normal life; the hunger always betrayed her.
She had tried to capture this in her painting. Rather than composing a direct reproduction of her idol, she had merely paraphrased in paint and brush. The girl in the picture was no supernatural being, though no one could inflict such self-harm and live. Samara had based her on a gothic model who’d caught her eye, often appearing in the metal magazines, selling corsets, boots, and spiked jewellery. The thick, black makeup couldn’t truly hide the natural porcelain beauty of the girl. And those eyes… What had she done to reach this step on the rock star ladder? What future did she see? Samara had intended her subject to have plucked out her eyes and offer them to the viewer in each palm. She scrapped the idea, desperate instead to capture the melancholy gaze of the young, delicate model.
On the canvas she stared out, eyes cool and withdrawn despite the anguish displayed by the rest of her face. Her small mouth was spread wide in a silent scream, teeth bared. Had Samara captured them at the moment of transformation? Like Woe, the fangs and front incisors were unnaturally slender and pointed. She’d worked hard on the mouth, trying to avoid a vampiric look, what with the long fangs. The inclusion of extra needle-like teeth had created a nightmare, one that pierced the attention and held you trapped, held you close. The real terror lurked behind the thin spikes of ivory, writhing in the darkness, crawling over each other like snakes in a deep, lightless pit.
You had to look closely to see it, and this was Samara’s intention, and her tribute to Outside. The girl on the canvas held this confused darkness inside, and a casual viewer would have no idea unless they stepped close enough to really examine the piece.
However, what they would immediately see from across the room, the act that screamed from the painting in lavish gore and carnival glee, was the anguish of the girl. Her pale thin fingers of both hands tugged at her bare chest. Her nails pierced the soft skin, separating it like melting rubber, and tearing it from her body in two great handfuls. As a pervert spreads his jacket wide to expose himself and the sight of his intimacy invades the unwilling witness, image raping the vision, so too did the girl on the canvas. Strands of torn muscle and sinew clung to her bloodied ribs, and within, her still beating heart, wet and glossy, hung on display.
As the painting had begun to take shape, Samara had caught some of the other students in the class staring.
“But that’s what you want, right?” said Lily. They’d been discussing their respective days over a smoke, waiting for the bus.
“Yes and no. It depends. Are they just looking? Or are they seeing?”
They see her suffering, but will they get close enough to see the cause?
Samara eased down from the high stool, heavy boots touching down on the tiles of the art room, and walked back to her workstation.
Not bad at all, she thought, assessing her work across the short distance.
A giggle and quick whisper sounded from the corner.
Samara glared at the small group as she cleaned her brush. They weren’t allowed in here, especially with students trying to concentrate.
Vicki was sitting before her own masterpiece, her back to the canvas as she chatted with three other girls. The blonde artist had done very little in the way of art over the last hour, instead gossiping with her friends in hushed chatter. Some comments were apparently too fun to keep restrained, and occasionally the volume spiked, followed by laughter. Samara had gritted her teeth against the intrusion, trying to stay focussed, wishing she hadn’t left her portable CD player at home. Some Metallica would easily drown those fuckers out.
“Bit overboard, don’t you think?” asked one of the girls. Samara thought she was referring to the painting, an expected reaction from the clique, but the girl motioned about her face with a finger. “The makeup. Just a bit, eh?”
Who the fuck are you? thought Samara.
Vicki glanced across. “Ignore her, Sam. Julia thinks she’s funny. You got paint on you.”
Flustered, Samara dropped the brush in the jar and sought out her bag. She pulled out her small, round mirror and checked her face. Black and red paint smeared her chin and the corners of her mouth, a result of clutching brushes between her teeth. Looked like she’d vomited a mixture of oil and blood. She quickly wet a paper towel and set to work. “Thanks.”
Vicki’s picture, setting behind the group and patiently waiting for further work, was a self-portrait. A house, Vicki’s home Samara presumed, stood in the sun. With the viewpoint from the garden, with various colourful flowers blossoming around the edge of the canvas, you could see through an open window to the young woman sitting painting inside. Seated before an easel and canvas, the girl stared back at the viewer through the window, creating the illusion that the real Vicki and her rendered counterpart were capturing each other. Samara had overheard her classmate refer to the piece as Perception, a title that Miss Jones had fawned over. Technically the piece was sound, but what did it have to say? It had all the depth of…well… Samara’s father spoke in her head, just in from work and sat in front of the television. A nice bowl of fruit. Something natural.