Alone

Chapter 1

The air is putrid as the metallic smell of blood burns my nostrils . My heels tick against the concrete floor as my coat hugs my body in comfort , shielding me from the terrible sight around me.

A metal bench is installed in the middle of the room . A drainage system is leading from the corners to a bucket underneath it . The top is tilted down so that what was put on it to drain would run smoothly into the pipes . The blood around has turned a dark colour and there are absolutely no windows to air out the stench. The only openings being a flight of stairs in front of me and the door I had just entered through . A door too thin to protect what was hidden inside from the outside world. Not the best security measures to shield everything from the public eye .

This is where my husband took his victims to drain and decay .

I had never been able to see it with my own eyes.  I was never interested in his affairs before he was sent to hell . However I need to know . Now that the only person I trusted is gone because of him,I need to see where he forced her to live and in what conditions. 

My heels knock against each step as I ascend the staircase . It's a bit narrow and steep . As if it was built for only him .

My gaze dances around the room I walk into and feel my body go numb as my eyes start to water . Emotions build up inside me as I take in what was left behind .

Paintings litter the room. Most of them unfinished and left with disinterest in the subject of the artworks. Most have the unique style that is so well-known in the area . The style I despise and wish to never see again . Yet here I am. Standing amongst countless of paintings mocking me with vague yet astonishing detail . I wish to burn every single one of these canvases.

Yet some -very little-are brightly coloured and almost complete artworks with a lazy technique and loose brushstrokes.  These few paintings bring a painful smile to my face as hot tears drip down my face, ruining my makeup.  These paintings were created by my one and only true love .
These paintings will be coming back home with me . Where they'll stay forever until I take my last breath. 

Taking a few steps forward , I rest my hand on a chair that is seated in front of a paint-covered easel with neatly stacked paintbrushes with some dry paint gluing all the bristles together. 
I take note of how low the easel is adjusted and let out a hideous cry that mixes with humour I find in seeing how small Lorain was .

My fingertips drag along the varnished wood and graze the clumps of dry paint and scoff at how messy she was . She never did care for the aftermath of what she did . She was always too occupied with her emotions to care .

The picture of her well-defined body sitting hunched over in this seat painting her heart out brings a sense of comfort to me . This was definitely where she spent a lot of her time .

With hesitation I sit in her chair.  With gentleness I caress the armrests and purse my lips.  It's as if I can still feel her warmth . The way her arms would wrap around me and bring warmth to this thin and cold body of mine. 

"Lorain ..." I whisper as the muscles in my face burn as I cry in agony .

Her absence is too much for me. I had grown so used to her company back in Sweden that I forgot how it felt to be alone . I forgot what it was like to be without Lorain .

Through blurred vision , the tray next to the easel in front of Lorain's catches my eye. More so the neatly stacked tubes of paint with red liquid dried up around it after being spilled .

I force myself out of Lorain's chair and walk around to see the workspace of a demon.  The easel is spotless.  Not a drop of paint on it . The paintbrushes are all clean and set neatly in a specific order from smallest to biggest  .
His workspace looks untouched . It's as if Lorain was working alone . Almost as if the person she was working with operated like some robot.