Chapter Text
Cover art by https://www.tumblr.com/skelered
The charcoal is solid in your fingers. It’s familiar, an extension of yourself. It drags across the paper in calculated bold streaks, adding shadows and defining features in crisp, bold lines with grain fragments dusting the air. The delicate line in between your brows furrows in thought, and using the pad of your index finger, you start blending in your smudges with careful pressure. You’ve never liked using those blending brushes anyway.
Sunshine trickles in through the high paned windows along the ceiling. You like having control over how much light gets let into your studio, and specifically requested a room with the least amount of light. Quite contrary, you know, but it’s just how your brain works.
They wouldn’t let you have a room without windows entirely. That could lead to too many dark thoughts; sunlight was apparently good for the brain.
And so you sit in your meticulously organized space with your wooden, rickety chair creaking underneath you with each movement as you work at your easel. You’ve been working on this piece for countless hours now, but you can’t find it in you to stop. You need to finish it.
It’s the same face that’s been resurfacing in your dreams and causing your current bout of insomnia.
You’re so intently focused on your work that you don’t realize the door to your studio scrapes open. A playful, if mocking voice, rings out, “Any more hunching over and your back is going to stay that way, darling.”
Your entire body flinches, prompting your piece of charcoal to fall out of your grasp. It shatters in two against the wooden floor, making you sigh. Narrowing your eyes, you throw a weak glare over your shoulder and do your best to keep the annoyance out of your voice, “Darian, please don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“I tried calling your name down the hall,” The man defends with a smirk. His short cropped, wavy hair is artistically styled, as always. The color of it is a dark, honeyed brown, and it matches his eyes. Infuriatingly handsome, as your mother liked to say. Far too good for you, as well. He’s wearing a suit and gives your space a rather disdainful look, although he thankfully keeps any of his comments to himself today. You’re grateful for small mercies.
He tuts at you when he’s finally close enough to take in your appearance. You’re dressed in a pair of worn overalls that’s stained from various forms of art medium, with a baggy t-shirt to match. Reaching out a hand he grabs at your chin, forcing your face up just enough for him to look you over. Your lips purse warily as you do your best to maintain eye contact.
“You look awful,” Darian comments dryly, “Have you taken your meds today?”
A sharp twist of anger rolls through your belly. And yet, your face remains neutral as you reply slowly, “Yes. I have my alarms set on my phone.”
“Good. Wouldn’t due to have another mishap. God knows your mother would be on my case about it again,” He takes his hand away and frowns, “Ugh, disgusting- go get yourself cleaned up. I came up here to remind you that we have dinner in a few hours. I have a dress laid out for you on your bed.”
A small, barely there nod, and you let your eyes fall back to gazing off to the side and not at Darian. He rubs the tips of his fingers against the shoulder of the t-shirt you’re wearing to wipe off the charcoal residue.
“Seriously, your hair is atrocious. Have you been locked up in here all day?”
“Not-not all day. I didn’t sleep well last night… I had this piece in my head, and I just. I needed to get it out on paper. It helps me with-”
Darian’s focus drifts from you to the easel, and his face scrunches up as he cuts you off, “Ugh. Skeletons again?”
Insecurity flashes harshly through you, and you cringe at the way Darian waves a hand around the room, “I thought we talked about this. You were going to focus on scenery pieces for Ebott’s courthouse. The city commissioned you and everything, you’re getting paid for those. Not this- this fantasy nonsense.”
“Darian. Art is part of my therapy process. You know that.”
A scoff of sound leaves him, and any sort of rebuttal you could make gets drowned out by his condescending remark, “And your ‘therapy process’ requires you to draw monsters born from the delusional rantings of a traumatized 10-year-old?”
Your hands clench in your lap, and you hate how your voice grows strained, “It… it helps get it all out of my head-” You attempt to explain, but Darian doesn’t bother listening. He rarely has the patience for it.
“So you’ve said. As long as you don’t believe this nonsense anymore. Right?”
The slow, deceptively innocent question makes your body grow cold. It’s the first time you manage to look up at Darian directly since he entered your studio, and you say in a calm, level voice, “I don’t.”
“Of course you don’t. All that therapy, after all. Can’t let it go to waste- just like your skills. You aren’t gaining any profit from these ‘therapy’ projects, so you should focus your efforts on the commissioned pieces you owe. Don’t you think, dear?”
Another miniscule nod, and Darian grins. His teeth are pearlescent and perfectly straight. He moves your headband the slightest bit for you, then chirps with a clap of his hands, “Excellent! Glad we can agree. Now go get yourself ready, darling. Make sure to try parting your hair so it covers that dreadful scar, hm? Love you.”
Dutifully, you tilt your head up so that he can press a chaste kiss to your cheek before he strolls out of the room. He doesn’t bother waiting for you to reply, just as he doesn’t bother with closing the door, as usual. You shakily exhale as quietly as you can in the hopes of him not hearing you, like you’ve done countless times before.
The silence is welcome as much as it feels isolating. But you’re used to that, by now.
Slowly you turn back around so that you’re facing your easel. Your dull, silver flinted eyes glance over the paper.
A skull. With vast, empty eye sockets, staring straight at you from the page, and a grin so wide it would be comical in real life.
Inhuman. Monstrous. The humor is short lived by the sinister quality of it all.
Sweat starts to pearl up on your brow. For inexplicable reasons the fear in your heart turns crippling, and you end up tearing it to shreds with trembling hands.