Ruin (The Rhodes 1)

It’s time to upgrade Mae to the next level.

Chapter Twelve

Mae

White saturates my closed eyelids.

The cell fades into the background. Its dull walls transform into my canvas. Inspiration strikes like angry lightning, electrifying my hand to move and fulfil its needs. Like a possessed brush, my fingers dart in all directions, shaping something with frightening speed.

Stillness occupies my insides, and I patiently await to see where this goes. I can’t tell my hand what to do. I’m only to follow its spontaneous commands. Sometimes, it’s worthy. Other times, it’s pure rubbish. But most of the time, it’s a darkness that I want to avoid like a plague.

When I first came to art, it was to unleash the energy inside me. It started with beautiful things; green sceneries, flowers, and my grandparents’ farm. Then, it evolved into something entirely sinister: Phantoms and sombre shapes.

My trauma of darkness translated itself on my canvas more than once. I tried to oppress it, but my best pieces were always fragments of my nightmares.

“Have you finally lost your mind?”

My eyes shoot open at Aaron’s deep voice. The imaginary canvas shatters in the background.

He stands opposite my sitting position. With my finger suspended in the air, it appears like I was using him as a canvas.

My gaze travels from his narrow waist to his handsome face, taking in the refined spotless black suit.

He’s so unworthy of the physical perfection bestowed upon him.

And yet, relief washes over me whenever he’s around. His company is way better than the biting loneliness that makes my head swim with pessimistic thoughts. Abhorrent solitariness thrusts me towards my kidnapper in a way I don’t want. When the hell did I become so dependent on this man?

“No cold soup today?” I motion at both his hands in his pockets.

“You won’t need it anymore.” His voice is toneless, expression vacant.

A ball the size of my fist forms at the back of my throat. No matter how much I swallow, it won’t go away.

Oh. God.

It’s time. He’s going to kill me.

It was weird that he kept me around without hurting me— not physically at least.

How stupid was I not to notice? No, not stupid. I was in denial, hoping that he changed his mind about killing me.

How foolish.

“Why didn’t you do this from the beginning?” I shout. Tears spring to my eyes as I jump to my feet and shove at his chest with shaky hands. He doesn’t even sway. “Did you give me hope on purpose? Do you get off on those things, you sick bastard?”

“This isn’t the time for your tantrums, mouse.” His hand wraps around both my wrists in a firm grip and yanks them down. “We need to go.”

“No.” I cower away from him. “I’m not walking to my death with my own feet.”

“You’re being absurd.” His expression morphs into irritation as he beckons. “Come. Here.”

I frantically shake my head and step back to put the bed between us.

I won’t die without a fight.

With a swift movement, I pick the empty tray by the foot of the bed and position it in front of my chest. Adrenaline flows through my muscles, tightening them. I plant my feet in a wide stance and hold his merciless gaze with my own.

Bring it, psycho.