My Darkest Rose

Chapter 26

The Fear Inside

Jack stared at the moon. It seemed as if no time had passed at all, and yet everything felt different. The ground beneath him was warm and dry. His feet were still in the water but he made no move to pull them out. The cool caress of the water was soothing, not frightening, like before.

He sat up and looked around. If the creature was watching him, he had no sense of it. The dark spaces between the trees held no menace.

And he was alone, completely. He knew for certain now that Rose was gone. She'd come back to help him, to show him what he'd forgotten, but now that she had, she wouldn't return.

It hurt. It hurt so bad that he thought about staying near the water, sliding forward, back into the darkness. But she'd wanted him to do something, hadn't she? She wanted him to stop the creature from killing anyone else.

But how? She'd said not to be afraid. Could that be it? It seemed too simple.

He stood and walked back to the house. The clock over the door showed that just an hour had passed since he walked down to the lake, but it felt like he'd been gone for hours. Days, even.

He carried his clothes to the bathroom and started the shower. Mud still lined the tub from where he'd bathed with Rose. She'd wanted him to remember, even then, when all he could think was how to keep her there, she'd been trying to help him.

She wanted him to remember that the part of that night he'd questioned for seven years - the part where the creature dragged her into the lake- was not the memory to question. It was the beginning of that night he'd forgotten, not the end.

He'd forgotten that it was his fear, not Rose's, that called the creature.

As he got into the shower and used his feet to push the mud down the drain, new questions occurred to him. Why did the creature attack Rose that night and not him? Why Fauna? If it had always been his creature, why kill those he loved and not him?

Did it hate him that much?

Rose said not to be afraid. But how? When the gravity of this day wore off and he remembered his sister, when he thought back to that night, when he let those feelings back in, how could he keep the fear at bay? How could he be anything but afraid?

He showered quickly as questions continued to fill his mind, then went back into the living room where Fauna had stacked his art supplies.

She must have thought to give him these in jail. A fresh wave of grief washed over him. She'd always taken care of him. Always believed in him. And he hadn't protected her- hadn't even warned her.

What had she felt when he'd been arrested? Relief? She must have, even a little bit, felt relieved of the burden of him. And what had she felt in her final moments? Had she called out for him?

It was nearing four a.m., but he wasn't tired. In fact, as he laid out his paint supplies on the living room floor, he felt a renewed sense of energy. He wanted to paint.

But what to paint on? Fauna had brought supplies and drawing paper. There were canvases in the bedroom, but he didn't want to cover his old work. He looked around the room, but found nothing he could use.

There was the wall. Blank. White. It was perfect. Fauna would never approve but she wasn't here to...he pushed away that thought as grief threatened to overpower him.

He tore open a fresh bucket of white gesso, groaning in frustration as the lid threatened to stick, until he was finally able to get one edge up and peel it away. He loved the look of the fresh paint, the smooth, slimy surface. It made him want to dig his hands in there and move them around. And he did just that, taking big handfuls of gesso and smearing them all over the wall, letting it drip on the carpet and sink into the fibers.

When he had half the wall covered, he used black paint to outline the creature. The familiar sense of calm that always accompanied his work settled over him and allowed him to push away the sad feelings that crept up his neck every now and then. He was good at this. Not just the painting, but the meditative state of art. The surrender.

He remembered how he'd painted on Rose's skin. It hadn't really worked that night, had it? It must have been the drugs. It had formed a barrier between his body and his mind, and fear had come rushing into that open space.

Fear was like that too, he realized. A barrier, one that kept him from himself, from rational thought.

He painted Rose inside the creature, near its chest.

He painted water creeping up the creature's torso. He filled its legs with fish.

Inside its head he painted a crowd of people, Jackie's, with signs reading ROSE LIVES and FREE JACK. It's eyes were Theodore's eyes.

On other parts of its body he painted some of the characters he'd created over the years, monsters and aliens. He painted Andrea and Gwennie. He painted his mom and Moonwood. He painted Annie, the journalist he'd spent the night with. He painted Detective Hernandez, Andy, and Bran.

He put everything and everyone into the painting of the creature, even Kari, the grocery store clerk.

When he was done, he sat on the couch and tried to make sense of what he'd created. Sunshine began to filter in through the vine-covered window, casting a tapestry of light over the wall, highlighting faces of people and monsters.

And it all seemed so silly. So small. He started laughing, especially when he looked at Kari, the woman who'd made him scurry out of the grocery store like a scolded child. "Some balls," she'd said, which made him laugh even harder.

He'd even been afraid of his most ardent fans, the ones who loved him and had supported him when the whole world thought he was a murderer.

Someone knocked on the door, startling him into silence. He sat down the paintbrush and peered through the window. Mandy stood on the front steps.

"Thank God," she said, as he opened the door, "You scared me to death, Jack. Were you laughing in here?"

"Sorry," he said, remembering how just a few hours ago he thought he was coming here to die. How could he do that to her? After everything, he hadn't even considered what that would be like for her. "I should get a phone in here so you can call."

"A phone?" she said, incredulous. "Jack, you can't stay here."

"Why?" He couldn't go back to Chicago, not yet. And staying with Mandy and Robbie just felt...wrong. Which reminded him that Robbie was in jail.

"Why? Because your sister just died and you shouldn't be alone."

She glanced over his shoulder at the wall. Mouth open, she stepped inside to study the new painting. She looked at it for a long time, then shook her head and turned around. "You forgot someone," she said.

"What do you mean?" He looked at the creature again and thought it complete.

"You forgot Robbie."

"Oh," he said. He had forgotten Robbie. Strange.

Her voice broke when she said, "He's the one who planted the evidence here that made Hernandez arrest you. He's the reason you were in jail and not here when--"

"Hey," he said, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around her. "It's not your fault."

She sighed and rubbed her forehead. "You mind if we go out back?" she asked. "This paint smell is giving me a headache. And I have a lot to tell you."