The Soul Painter [completed]

-Chapter Eleven-

Location: Olympia, Washington, US

The salty taste of ramen isn't quite as good when Lottie sips it after watching them treat gunshot wounds on the screen of her laptop. In fact, it's almost nauseating. 

So much blood.

And the reason for it can be traced directly back to her.

There is blood on her hands in other areas of her life too, though. Blood that screams out for revenge, or an apology. Both of those things make her cringe. 

She wishes she could talk about it, but Renee isn't at work today. Something about a cat, so she said.

Lottie has always wanted a cat. A real cat, with fur, unlike her imaginary cat back at the apartment. Imaginary cats don't cost a dime to acquire or feed, and they don't shed on her clothes. They also don't make good company. 

She sends the file labeled "Software" to Paul again, wishing under her breath that he will accept it this time. But for now, she's being paid to make sure that the hair of the heroine in his video game has perfect shine. Even though it's a shoot 'em up game, Game of Aces has a main character who has the boys crawling at her feet, and hair like a runway model. It's wildly unrealistic against the blood splatters on her clothes and the dirt smudges across her cheekbones—details that Lottie added herself. She never gets to animate any big stuff. Just the little things that frustrate her and make her feel like an insignificant part of the designer team.

The reply to her email is quick; he obviously isn't very busy today. 

Much better. The tension between the characters is wildly realistic. With a few more tweaks, I might be willing to buy it from you. How much would you want for it? —Paul

She blinks. Sell the Software? The thought hasn't ever crossed her mind. She wants to get a promotion to a station that will fully use her animating talents, not sell her life's work. 

I wasn't planning on selling it, I just wanted you to see what I'm capable of.

She doesn't know what to write next. Flat out asking for a better position would be pitiful, but if she doesn't ask he won't understand what she is getting at by sending it to him. 

So, she writes something completely different.

Are you busy right now? 

The reply is instantaneous.

No. —Paul

So instead of asking anymore questions via email, she clears the screen of her computer and begins to weave through the labyrinth of cubicles to his office.

His office is a spacious one, with a big oak desk, a shiny steel and black leather office chair, and a red, retro armchair on the other side of his desk. 

All very tasteful. Almost as tasteful as he is.

He's sitting in his office chair when she walks up to the door and raps quietly on the doorpost with her knuckles. 

He looks up, his blue eyes slightly dulled by boredom, but they brighten slightly when he sees her.

"Ms. Lang. I'm going to go out on a limb here and assume that you've come to discuss that program of yours." He gestures for her to sit down.

She does, smiling dazedly, but snaps out of it when he brings up the Software.

"Yes, Mr. Muller. The Software. That's the thing."

He quirks an eyebrow, lifting a coffee mug to his lips. "What?"

She licks her lips nervously. "I don't want to sell it."