Warning: Blood :3
Lotus Blood - Age 16
"Baby, I have to go," Blaine tried to push me off him as I latched onto his arm, "and so do you, if you want to make it to school on time." I made a drawn out groan in annoyance as Blaine peeled me off him and searched the floor. Laying on the bed motionless, I examined Blaine's back as he put on his shirt and tugged the covers off my body.
"Come on, Lotus, get up," Blaine dragged me to the edge of the bed and I squealed when he tickled me into moving.
"I'm not going to school today," I whined, climbing back under the covers and giving Blaine puppy eyes, "pretty, please?" Blaine resisted for a moment but then dropped his tensed shoulders and mumbled a short, 'fine', before kissing me and jumping through to his bedroom.
My wrist had begun to itch so I rubbed the concealer off to see that the two cuts I had made never healed. They were the deepest cuts I had ever made. One for April, and one for my mother.
They aren't supposed to heal.
You don't get that kind of bliss.
A wave of sadness crashed over me and I stumbled to my bedroom door so I could maybe head downstairs, but before I left the room a noise stopped me in my tracks.
Yelling.
Yelling coming from Blaine's house.
Fuck.
It was no secret that Blaine's parents didn't get along - after the first two weeks of meeting him, there were countless times where he would hide out in my room and read books with me. I never knew why until one night when April was out of the house and Blaine was softly crying in his room - meanwhile, his parents screamed at each other, and sounds of breaking glass could be heard loud and clear.
That night Blaine had crawled through to my bedroom and we sat in silence until he left to go sleep in his own bed. Nowadays, more often than not, Blaine and I spent the night in my bed together because I craved his closeness, and he couldn't handle being in the same house as his parents.
I need him.
The yelling sounds soon dissipated - I assumed Blaine must've just retaliated once against his parents and darted out of the house. The car usually found in the driveway was missing, and when I peered into Blaine's bedroom his backpack was absent.
He'll be fine.
My stomach growled and I slowly meandered down to the kitchen and ate a small bowl of cereal before grabbing a handful of chocolate chips from the pantry. Unfortunately, I would eventually have to go grocery shopping again which was a huge hassle in itself. To make money, I began selling my paintings after I realized my mother wouldn't be around to pay for everything and I would need to pay the electric and water bills, along with groceries and such.
Paint.
The jars of blood called to me as I tentatively stepped down the stairs and crawled through the box tunnel.
Drip.
"Three thousand eight hundred and six."
Drip. Drip.
"Three thousand eight hundred and eight."
There were two finished paintings leaning against the blood-smeared walls - one was ready to be sold and the other needed the last coat of varnish to seal the blood into the canvas and mask the metallic smell.
The small spray can of varnish easily sprayed a thin, even layer onto the painting. The painting itself was two hands, the right hand's fingers brushed against the palms of the other, while the left hand was outstretched and open. The painting also showed off the wrists towards the bottom and two white marks stood out from the oxygenated blood.
Two cuts.
Two casualties.
I took pictures of both of the paintings and put one up for sale as I chose a canvas for my newest piece. I decided on one of my medium canvases and strode to the two shelves lining the cement walls - the first shelf stacked with seven mason jars full of a mixture of an anti-clotting solution and blood.
Your mother's blood.
Hope your pleased with yourself.
Blowing out a short breath, I secured my small flyways with a quick messy french braid before unscrewing the first mason jar and dunking my fingers into the cold liquid. I wasn't used to painting with cold blood, and because my jars remained in the basement they were freezing as I coated all ten fingers with the substance.
After painting for years with my fingers it was easy to manipulate the deep red color to look like the ripples on a pond and overhanging trees. Red cattails lined my small blood lake and I painstakingly fashioned a little girl wearing a sunhat using the edges of my pinky finger.
Her face was downcast and void of any features except for the shade of her large sunhat. The little girl peered into the pond and a minuscule fish was added - jumping out of the pond as if it was putting on a show just for her.
I found diluting some of the blood with water achieved lighter tones that I could use to highlight the little girl with.
Almost done.
The finishing touch was a looming figure, something hiding in the tall grass and cattails - something dark and mysterious ready to devour the small unassuming child. It blended in with the tall dense trees I'd decided to surround the pond with.
After some tweaks, I signed the piece and pondered over a name.
'Remember, they don't fade.'
Ever.
Stepping back, I left the painting to dry while closing the mason jar shut and putting it back on its shelf before getting cleaned up upstairs. After I had changed into some decent clothes I snagged the newly varnished painting and walked it over to Blaine's house.
My hand was poised over the front door before knocking and hoping that I wouldn't get scolded for coming at such an inconvenient hour. It was around lunchtime for most people and I knew that Blaine's mother had an early morning shift until she came home for lunch at around twelve in the afternoon.
"Lotus!" Blaine's pale, blonde-haired mother made an allowance for me to amble inside the doorway with the large painting behind my back. She gave me a warm smile and offered me water to which I politely declined.
"Any particular reason you came over other than the obvious canvas behind your back?" The kind woman chuckled as she ushered me to the couch and sat on it herself. Slowly, I took a seat and rested the large canvas onto my lap.
"I thought you'd like this painting I did a couple of days ago."
I didn't expect Ms.Mcbride to get so emotional because she immediately teared up and mused how beautiful and meaningful it was. Smiling, I pushed it into her hands again after she refused to keep the 'beautiful artwork' as she put it.
"I know just the place for it," her eyes scanned the walls and I began to walk towards the front door, "are you leaving?" I shrugged and she rose from the couch and walked me to the foyer.
"Sorry Ms. Mcbride, I've got some homework to catch up on," I thought for a moment before offering to stay over another time so we could talk a bit longer. She grinned and promised me that she would display my painting in the best place she could.
As I darted away from the house I pulled back my cardigan sleeve and brushed my fingers against the two lines on my wrist. Scars, to be specific.
Remember, they don't fade.
Some memories never fade.
Some wounds will always bleed.
Some mistakes can never be forgiven.
YOU ARE READING
Finger Painting
Mystery / Thriller"I WORE THE SMELL OF BLOOD AND DEATH LIKE PERFUME" I may have been angry at my mother and brother - but I was angrier at myself. Angry for the person I knew I was becoming. Drip. "One thousand nine hundred eighty-four." I felt it and I knew I couldn...
