"What are you doing with my address?" The man in the seat next to me suddenly said. I looked in my hand and saw the paper with Brian Warner's address, it was unfolded and facing up.
"You- you're Mr. Brian Warner?"
"Yes. That's my name."
I dropped the paper, stunned. Rounding on him, I could faintly see that he was mildly annoyed with all of this.
"Oh! Well, HI! My name is Alice Madden, I came here from America to be apprenticed to you."
"Says who?" He asked skeptically. Maybe he wasn't aware of Prince Will's request?
"The prince."
He looked out hte window seeming to ponder this, "The . . . prince?"
"Yes."
"I know him. We tried coke together once." He mused, nodding his head at the fond memory.
"What? No! I mean the prince of England; he wouldn't do drugs, what are you talking about?"
"Oh," he said, facing me again. He had eyes like a wolf's, shiny and clever. Only they were incredibly saddened. "I misunderstood you. I thought you meant prince as in Will Smith."
"No. Prince William of England has instructed me to be apprenticed to you before painting his and Kate Middleton's royal portrait." I exclaimed. "Didn't he give you some formal warning I'd be coming?"
Before I had finished saying Kate Middleton the cab had already approached the destination and Mr. Warner had already made a move for the door. He winced, painfully sore from before. "I," he said, his hand having pushed the door open, "I don't think this is a good time, ma'am. I don't think this is possible."
"Wait, no! Please reconsider. Wait!" I grabbed his arm, stopping him from leaving, surprising everyone in the car, "What happened to you? Who were those men who chased you; do you need any-?"
"Goodbye." he shook me and slammed the door.
That night at the hotel, I found myself lonely and cold even as I curled up under soft blankets. I wondered if Mr. Warner felt that way too, living in that big mansion all by himself.
***
In the morning, Berkely agreed to drive me back to Mr. Warner's manor, on the condition that I kept a canister of Bear-Mace on my person. When I asked why, he only said that I wasn't in America anymore.
Throughout the ride, I tried my hand at remembering where I heard his name before, and why it was so familiar to me.
The house waited for us at the top of the hill. I approached the gate and rang the bell, it was five minutes before the intercom asked who I was.
"Mr. Warner. It's Alice."
"I told you, Alice, I'm sorry but I'm unavailable."
"Please, you don't understand how important this is to me! My whole career as a painter may rest upon this oppertunity, it's not a joke! I even have-" I said, taking out a letter signed by the prince, "proof that this is a legitimate task!"
". . . ." the sound in the intercom went fuzzy, meaning that he had groaned.
"Hello?"
The gate unlocked. I stepped inside and found out the yard was larger than I thought. It took five minutes just to reach the door. I was being visually raped by the gargoyles and I noticed that the windows had painted faces on them. Serously, visually, raped. I went in quickly.
Inside was alot like a castle. The furnature was tall, dark, and refined. Just like the owner. The floor was so lightly walked on that I could see my awed reflection below me. The front room was the size of a soccer field, there was a single television, couches arranged in a semicircle the color of blood, and beautiful works of art lining the walls. A grand piano was to my right and stairs led upwards a few feet from where I stood.
The most astonishing feature was the many shiny records alligned in a pyramid on the biggest, most centered wall.
I felt small and insignificant, the collapsable easle with a compartment full of my sample paintings in it suddenly weighted a hundred pounds. I became overwhelmed with admiration of this beautiful place and wouldn't dare take another step into it.
"Mr. Warner?" I said, my voice echoing. Damn this place was big.
He descended from upstairs, he was in a black t-shirt and dark pants with many pockets and zippers and chains. He muttered about fucking lying and morbid abuse. I didn't know what he meant.
"Proof?" He said, his hand out like he expected pay. I started to like this guy less and less.
I dropped the letter into his hand, he read it with emotional value as deep as a teaspoon. "It's a fraud." He handed it back.
"You're joking! You saw the signature-"
"Fake! There's no way the prince of England would just drop someone into my life, waste my time, waste my effort without a warning. Whatever it is you want, I'M NOT-" he said, suddenly yelling, I stepped back afraid of him hitting me or something, "GOING TO AMUSE YOU. I'M DONE WITH THIS BULL SHIT!"
"If- If I could just-"
"GET OUT!"
I stumbled backwards, my easle exploding and my best paintings spilled out all over the place. I was on my ass, looking up at him like a thing about to be eaten. I suddenly had no desire to be nice.
"DON"T yell at me like some pissy boy! You can't treat people like this, I don't deserve this! I'm OUT OF HERE!" I scooped up a hand full of paintings, not all of them, whatever, I don't care.
I marched to the door, turning back I said. "I hope you realize where all the artwork you collect came from. Those artists put their lives into their work, and banishing someone like me is like spitting on a thousand graves." I exited before he could say anything.
**********
Coming soon. A longer chapter.
I didn't realize that the last few pages I'd switched between first and third person. Oops. It's supposed to primarily be in Alice's perspective.
She has a lot to tell you guys about meeting this wonderful man. (Though currently angry) lol
