Bride of the Creature

One

Ivelle

The red on the canvas looks disturbingly like blood. I keep dragging the brush over it, harder and harder, almost tearing through, but I don't care.

I need to calm myself somehow, and painting is the only way I know how. 

The palette in my other hand is a chaotic mess of colors. The painting also no longer resembles what I set out to create. It's pure anxiety and disorder splashed across in desperate strokes.

This has never happened before. Painting has always brought me calm, no matter how chaotic my mind felt.

Today, however, is different. Despite my best efforts, I am unable to concentrate. I thought, as always, that sitting here and letting the brush guide me would bring some peace.

But not this time.

I'm filled with stress, a persistent feeling that something horrible is going to happen. Even though I practically expect horrible things to come by now, this feels more intense than just a lousy vibe. Because the kind of misfortune I attract isn't just ordinary bad luck. It's something darker, almost like a curse. And someone devious like me will know when a bad event is about to happen.

"Why can't I shake this off?" I mutter to myself, the brush trembling in my hand.
But there are no responses in the room's quietness. The canvas looks back at me, mocking me, telling me it is aware of the confusion going through my head. 

"Maybe I should just walk away," I say, shaking my head. "But I can't. I need to paint. It's the only thing that helps." 

What if it doesn't this time?  Let go.

A voice inside me whispers ,quiet yet unmistakably mine, only softer. It's the same voice that always rises when my mind feels overrun, binding me in invisible chains, trapping me in hesitation. 

It distorts my intents till I hardly recognise myself, stopping me from acting in accordance with my moral convictions and forces me to do things that I would never do on my own, like hurting someone I love or snapping when all I want is calm.

Turning that anguish inward and destroying myself to protect those around me is sometimes the only way to avoid hurting them.

I grit my teeth, refusing to acknowledge it. "No. I just have to push through."

I repeatedly spatter the canvas with my brush after dipping it into a bright red colour. The clumsy repetition is all I have. No plan, no direction. Being caught in this cycle with no real goal makes me feel like I'm wasting paint.

"Just concentrate, okay!" I yell. My annoyance is leaking forth. I feel the burden of a strange thing pushing down on me as I glance down at my quivering, paint-stained hands. It's creeping up again. Panic. 

I feel even more alone because of how dark the room is and how the shadows move across the walls. The sky is slowly being overtaken by dense, black clouds that are rolling in from outside. Everything is in a muted, grey stillness as the final vestiges of light and warmth vanish. Somehow, the air is starting to feel chilly in the room, as though it is preparing for a heavy downpour.

There are canvases all throughout this room, which is actually my art studio. Each canvas tells a story, a chapter of my life I've chosen to share with only a select few.

I've never let anyone into this space, except Zabel and Theon. Not even my brothers or my father have stepped foot in here. I also never expected them to come, to appreciate the pieces scattered around this room. I've always worried that they won't like my art. I picture their eyes being clouded by skepticism and disappointment since our bond has always been strained.