Kill Me Softly

Chapter 1 Sienna

As the fourth person bumps into my shoulder, I curse my bipolar disorder for what feels like the millionth time in my twenty-five years of life. Even with it being three in the morning there are way too many people out and about for my taste.

After having deep cleaned my house, bathing my dog Donatello, and sketching out a piece for a six hour session for tomorrow I still was not tired. My mania was at an all time high and instead of going stir crazy in the house, I figured I would go to the shop. There's always something to be done, Gods knew the guys were literally no help at all when it came to the daily cleaning.

I went feral last week when I found a handful of chocolate wrappers tucked into one of my favorite chairs in my library. My staff simply laughed me off when I made a whole meeting over the importance of cleanliness but I will seek justice for the chocolate stains that now lie on the fabric. It was merely a matter of time before the culprit fucks up.

They always do.

I growl in annoyance at the memory as I cross the street when I'm allowed to do so. The crème pea coat I remembered to throw on keeps me warm as the chilled air brushes off the buildings downtown. When I first moved to Aberdeen, Washington I felt overwhelmed. I grew up with nothing but buildings and skyscrapers as far as the eye could see, having been brought up in the heart of Indianapolis. Now if I look out into my backyard I can just barely make out the Olympic mountains. I moved here four years ago and in the middle of the summer. The first winter here was brutal for me, they were nothing like what I had grown up with. Being so far north into the state our winters hit earlier, harder than they do in Indiana, lasting for longer periods of time as well. So while it is currently the beginning of October it is already close to freezing out.

I still love it here.

Being so close to the coast; if I drive the twenty minutes from my house I can get to the beach. The ocean is peaceful in the winter because no one likes to freeze their asses off. But I prefer it. I often set up a little half cocoon on the beach with my easel and whatever form of art I am feeling at the moment and will make canvas after canvas.

It's cathartic for me. I release my anger or sadness onto the canvas and then I put it away in my art room at home. Sometimes I make something but I don't want to acknowledge it. If that's the case then I destroy the material before anyone could possibly see it. It just depends on what I make. I do it to deal with my shit. Literally and figuratively.

Not allowing myself to dwell on the darkness that  often churns when I recall my childhood, I pluck a twenty from my pocket to give to the guy on the drums who resides on the corner of Crockett street every night. He's good. Really good actually. I'm pretty sure that someone will swoop him up one of these days but until then I toss him a little something frequently. The kid smiles at me, flashing the dimple on one of his still rounded face. I make sure to return the gesture, giving him a genuine smile back before continuing down the street.

Well. I attempt to anyway.

I turn from the drummer boy and I all but slam into what feels like a brick wall. Before I can fall on my ass like a moron I feel a set of large hands grip onto each of my forearms, keeping me upright at the last possible moment. As I regain my balance and breath, I look up to thank the man who saved me from ruining my favorite coat but the words don't come out.

They can't.

Because the most handsome man is looking down at me.

The breath in my lungs just freezes.

Poof. Gone.

All I can make out of his hair are the shiny brown ringlets that pop out from under his black hood, the shade a sister to that of his eyes. A warm caramel that was just melted down. Or a shot of whiskey. His jawline is sharp and pronounced, clean shaven and totally lickable. And dimples. Fuck me. The man has the most symmetrical dimples on either side of his lush mouth. They pop out now as the handsome devil smirks at me.