Making Me Love You (Joe Sugg / ThatcherJoe FF)

I.

WARNING: Chapters in this story contain language, sexual content and violence. Not all of them of course, but you're reading at your own risk.

I draw a thick stripe on the canvas in front of me. Long black line. So many lines, stripes, dots. All of them black. It looks messed up. And it is, though it combines perfectly on the end. My fingers are black and I bet I have trails of paint all over my face. But I don't really care. As usual, the only thing that matters is this new painting I'm making. It's the only way I can be truly happy.

People have so many expectations in life. So many great and good expectations of things, they want to experience. It's a shame, life doesn't give them those. So they wait and wait. They struggle through all kinds of shit, expecting good things to happen. Artists often pour them into the wonderful paintings that are than hanged at the exhibition where everyone can admire them, because they are just so wonderful and full of hope. People seek hope around every corner. Any trace of it, that would tell them, not to give up on their expectations.

But I'm a different kind of an artist. I don't paint expectations. I used to. But not anymore. Expectations are good. And good can't be painted black. My paintings are reality. Reality that hit me a long time ago and will probably sooner or later, hit every single human being on this planet. Tough and mean reality, that kills all of the good expectations. I'm jealous of the people that realize that on their death bed. Paintings I'm making are full of hurt and realizing not everything is so great. But I never worried that they won't be succesful on the exhibition. People love hopeful paintings. But they also admire the hurtfntingss. Hurtful paintings hold so much more feelings, secrets, thoughts. And people find that extremely amdiring.

Just a brush scratching the canvas is the only sound in otherwise death-quiet room. My paintings are real and hurtful, but painting them brings me joy. Like all my worries have gone away. Somewhere where I can still see them but can't really feel them. I always used to love painting. Even as a little girl. I painted happy things back then. My expectations. Everyone said I was a real talent. I could make something more of it, but my life literally turned upside down and I blew every chance of studying art or something cheesy like that, a girl with dreams would do. On the end I ended up here, making my money by painting for the nearby gallery. They payed me good, but not enough to make something more of my life.

As I said, people loved my deppressed paintings. And I was happy I could live from it. Sometimes I ask myself If I miss painting beautiful, hopeful things. Than I remember I don't even remember what they areor how they feel. So I couldn't, even if I'd wish to.

There is a young girl's face produced under my fingers that are quickly moving brush to paint all the details, so a painting will be good. Title of the next exhibit is 'Scars of the past.' And if I'd write an autobiography, I'd give it the same title. I've painted 20 paintings, all with the motives of my past. This is the last one, presenting a little girl crying into an Australian flag. This is me, crying after my dad, when he passed away, serving his duty for the army. I often break while painting these things. But I never stop. Tears make me better.

"Hello beautiful."

I squeak and jump in my place as Rick's cold breath tickles my poll, and sends chills up my spine. Not in a good way. I immidiately stop, afraid that I'll ruin something because of the tense that has come into the room along with him. I hate when he comes into my studio. He brings so much of negative energy with him. I put down the brush, giving him a fake smile across my shoulder, as he holds me by my waist. His lips are so close to my ear and I can picture his mean, cocky smile he's holding on his face right now.

"Have some time for me?"

He puts it as a question, but is really not one. I don't have an actual choice. I don't answer. His hands are freely exploring my upper part of the body, his hungry lips tasting my neck. We are boyfriend and girlfriend. But it's not love. It's just force. Love shouldn't be like this.

"Rick, I'm painting...please, I really have to finish this."

I plead with insecurity have to be careful around him, not to piss him off. Because If I do, I'm doomed. I kinda learned that the hard way. I hear him frown as he turns me around on my chair to face him. His brows are almost colliding which means he's not really happy with my behavior. I stare at him scared and expecting another yelling or even something worse. But instead, he just sighs.

"Listen, my old friend invited me to spend few weeks with him in London. So I thought, you and I could go on a little vacation. You haven't been to England yet, have you?"

I shake my head, sighing reluctantly.

"But Rick, I have an exhibition! I can't take some time off!"

I prostest quietly. He doesn't even notice.

"He really doesn't mind. I think he's even excited to meet you. And I'm also excited to show him, what a beautiful piece I have."

He stares at me like a hungry wolf and I'm feeling so small. This is not a relationship everyone dreams of. It's more like a living hell. He does call me his girlfriend, but I never sensed any kind of love in his actions. Just pure lust. Therefore I don't feel loved like a girlfriend should feel. The only feeling I get around him is that flat pain in my stomach, making me want to cry and throw up at the same time.

"His name is Caspar, we met on some trip quite a few years ago. He's also apparently a huge internet sensation on YouTube. Did you hear of him by any chance?"

Looking down at my stained hands, I shake my head. I'm not into internet much. I only use YouTube and Twitter on my old and worn out Iphone 4, I bought like thousand years ago. And I never watch videos on YouTube. Therefor I never heard of this Caspar guy.

"But.."

I try again, hoping he'll understand how important this exhibition is. That it means so much to me. That it's not really time for travels. Rick never truly understood art. It was a waste of time for him. But he offered me a studio and provided my happiness. He was also equaly good at taking it away. I realize that again as he pulls my chin up with his rough fingers. He's angry.

"Evie, do I need to remind you of the deal we have? You are not in the position to argue with me, unless you want to be punished."

I shake my head wildly. Rick offers me a place to stay, he buys me food and I can have a studio in our apartment. But in exchange I'm like his slave. I have to do anything he wants.

"No, that's okay love. Vacation sounds great."

I mumble and receive his smile with a relief.

"We leave on Saturday."

With those words, he finally leaves me alone. I'm still in shock, as I am every time. That flat pain is back.Saturday is in two days. Just thinking about spending weeks on vacation with Rick and his friends that are probably just like him, makes me want to cry my heart out.

A/N: Chapter 1's up! I hope you like it and I'm sorry for any grammar mistakes there are. If you enjoyed this chapter please vote, comment and read on! Thanks for everything, love you all!

xx,

Špela