Hard to Get (A Stud for Stud Story ) *Rewritten*

Chapter 19

-Millie-

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I finish getting dressed and I look at myself in the mirror, already expecting for her clothes to be too be on me. But I am surprised to see that they are a good fit. I had a little trouble getting everything on because of the aching pain in my abdomen, but I pushed through it. Once I conduct my hygiene, I leave the room in search of the kitchen.

   After roaming the halls for about ten minutes I realize that I am completely lost. Last night, I was so disoriented by my unyielding need for food and water, I hadn't been as aware of my surroundings while we traveled throughout this place. I'm even sure how to get back to the room I slept in from where I am right now. I sigh heavily as I begin to grow frustrated; my stomach growling as I imagine a plate of breakfast that is close yet so far away. I continue walking, debating if I should start calling out for the Clumsy One as if I am a "damsel in distress". The long hallways seem to drag on forever before an opening even becomes available to enter another section of the place. Eventually, I find myself walking into a room that has pictures and paintings everywhere; hanging on the walls, stacked on the floor, leaving against things, and even placed on easels.

   Is this some sort of painting room? I think to myself as I let my curiosity pull me into the room to be nosy.

   Although there are paintings of animals and plants, the one that stands out the most, is the painting of the man that called The Clumsy Ones cell phone once before. Darius Lane; Mr. Money Bags. Why does she have a painting of him in her home?

   Unless this is not her mansion...

   What if she is holding him hostage and has been living here pretending that she owns the place???

   Wait, that wouldn't work because people would definitely notice if he were to go missing.

   Then, what if she is obsessed with her boss and paints portraits of him just to get him out of her head!

   But, she is a lesbian, as far as I can tell....

   Unless, that's a lie, too! -Dun, Dun, Duuuunnnn!

   As I continue to formulate assumptions in my head, my eyes roam around to examine other paintings. The painting leaning against an old desk catches my attention almost immediately. The tone of the painting is muted, the style reminiscent of Monet. Each stroke has a smudging quality that renders the image watery, like a reflection in a rippled puddle. The scene is a street, France I'll bet, the umbrella bearing pedestrians battle against rain and the red double-deckers and black cabs rumble by. It reminds me of the busy streets back home in New York. I remember looking out of a rain-splattered window at the rivers of people that moved in each direction. Like in this painting they moved so randomly, pushing against one another, flowing, like water. Perhaps to this artist that's what we are, small drops in a sky full of rain, each one looking out and saying to ourselves "Wow, that sure is a lot of rain."

I move on to another paint which is hanging high on the wall. The painting dominates the entire wall, every colour is bold and painted with such precise lines that it almost looks like a mosaic. They are curved yet sharply defined; they seem to stable but tumble at the same time. Like me I think, so stable but always in free-fall inside. I am soft but can lampoon people who spark my anxieties without meaning to. I am bright but I often feel painted onto the background, like there really isn't anything of substance inside. I hope there is. I hope there is more meaning in my bones than tumbling colours, chaotic and shallow.

   Snap my attention towards the door when I hear my name being called from somewhere else in the place. It sounds like Clumsy has come looking for me, thank goodness. I weave my way around the paintings, some unfinished, and head to the door. Just as I am leaving the room, I catch sight of a picture that has been placed on a table by the door. This picture caught my attention because it is so different. It seems to be the only picture that has that is not painted. It is an actual photo that was taken with a camera. I pick it up and examine how happy this family looks. There is a small child; aged somewhere between 10 and 12 years old. She very well, might be The Clumsy One. Those lips that surround her perfectly, straight, pearly whites are the dead give away. This little girl is The Clumsy One. I smile as I stare at her happy face. The pink dress she is to be expected at such a young age, I can't even recall a time where I wore a dress.