For the Love of Art

The back of the classroom was as cluttered as it was messy. Books of every age lay dying on the shelves of sticking out paintings and papers and laminated color palettes. The floor was mostly pulled up tiles with bashed pieces of it missing, as though a wrecking ball had been taken to it. A metal counter stretched in front of the bookcase for room's sake, more supine books, a dusty lava lamp, coloring pencils at random, used to an inch, paint brushes hardened with paint and abandon. Other such nonsense like half sketched portraits of people hung off the corner, pencil boxes hanging open, and the rest of the space? I had to push aside heavy boxes just to stand in front of the naked easel.

I sneezed at the metallic scent of diluted and undiluted paint, looking behind me to grab a chair at the same time Mr. Ryne arrived.

He had a large 27 x 34" sketchpad held between his fingers, a black, fattened bag of what I remember him to keep his utensils in and in his other hand he held four cartridges of charcoal of different textures and graphite powder.

I watched him set it up in silence, still very much able to feel his disdain seeping from his pores. For some reason, I was upset that he was upset with me. As if I wanted his approbation more than I wanted a chance to redeem my grade. Which was silly. What I wanted was this stern male put out of my life as fast as I could manage. Whatever it was he requested I make for him, I would.

He set the paintbrush bag on the back, then the sketchpad, but when he moved to flip open to a clean page, the bag tilted and I watched him simply watch it fall.

I crouched to get it the exact moment he did, pausing him in his pursuit. It wasn't until I rose, my hair brushing his forearm and sending a cold, unsettled shiver along my skin, that he recoiled away from the contact as though I were poisonous. I mean, he pulled away so fast I startled—nothing new—and looked at him to see if I had shocked him or something. His hands twitched, his posture looming once again.

"Sorry," was the only thing I knew how to say as I set the bag back where it belonged.

"Don't be," he said and I was more blown away by how gentle his voice had become, how he was regarding me with that same animalistic hunger. His eyes spoke volumes, really, and again I had the sense he wanted to grab me and band his arm around my throat as he emptied the last of his hatred into my receding life form.

I worried the ends of my shirt, looking to the cartridges he had set up on a stool. "What would you like me to do, sir?"

In my peripheral, I saw the jerking motion of his hand then heard a long sigh exit. Maybe I just evoked the crankiness in this man. Maybe he needed an outlet of all that hatred because his life was shitty at home. Typically where it started.

The screeching of a chair sounded next. Mr. Ryne sat at one of the chairs used to stand on and reach the top bookshelf more than sit. He twined his hands behind his head and looked up at me, legs spreading in that way men liked to do, hair slipping into his eyes, lips a hard gash. Waiting.

I stared.

He stared.

When seconds of silence passed, I caught myself before I shifted the full weight of myself onto the other foot. Then, "Do you want me to redo—"

"Don't talk, Miss Larson."

I at least had the sense to chide my shameful alacrity in obeying him. My mouth stopped moving, more out of acknowledgment that he could be legitimately crazy. And it was the last day of classes, the sun left the room splashed in the darkest shade of brown left. If this man wanted to kill me, he could so easily and I had no doubts he possessed the wits to get away with it.

If he really hated you, he wouldn't be giving you a chance to make up the grade.

That was rational thinking. Made a lot of sense. Why else would he treat me like this, though?

Like you said, everything starts at home. Maybe his home life is shit.

"What was the first assignment of my class?"

Was that permission to speak? I glanced down at the floor, fumbling through my brain for that exact assignment. When I found it, I looked back to him. "You asked us to make anything using any medium we wanted. Just bring you art and life, you said. And we had to attach an essay describing the art."

"And what did you bring me?"

I set my lips, remembering every bit of detail I poured into the drawing. A masked man with vines and thorns coiled around his face, looping into the mask and consuming his features to the point the agony could only be seen in the watering of his black and white eyes. I had been light with my medium, which had been charcoal, darkening only the eyes and the sections of the vines, the rims of the mask, adding potency where it was due.

What was he getting at, though? "I brought you a charcoal dusting of a man."

He nodded. "Yes. That you did." He sat forward now, elbows to his thighs, fingers still clasped. He pointed one at the sketchpad. "Bring me art and creativity."

Slowly I looked back at the sketchpad. So he had malcontent because I had chosen concept sketches instead of freestyle? He was upset with me because I didn't set my heart on a project like that? He was basically condemning me for not giving him what he wanted?!

I frowned but still rummaged around in his bag for the largest paint duster. Once the ovate, fat tool was between my fingers, I ran my pinky along the print in the wood, not looking to discern just what it said.

I took a deep breath, exhaled. Okay. Art. Bring him art.

But his eyes were on me, watching my every stroke before I even began. When I tried to focus on the content of what I would begin, the presence of him pressed at my focus, that animalistic hunger reminding me of what I had seen at his desk. I felt my breaths shallow.

Art. Art. Bring him art.

"Roll them up."

Huh? I looked at him, then followed the direction of his gaze. My sleeves, my fingers were curled hazardously around the seams, nails digging into my palm through the fabric. I always did this. It was the reason I wore the ridiculously large shirts. Comfort and sleeves my fingers could confide in. But still, "They're not in the way."

"Not physically. Mentally. You're feeding your energy and creativity into the nervous reflex. Roll. Them. Up."

His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. Did he have the same "reflex"?

I did as he said and rolled them to my elbows, the chills spiking at my skin instantly, shaking up my concentration so easily. Still, I returned to the sketchpad when he inclined his head toward it when satisfied.

I had plenty of things on my mind, plenty that could be deemed art and more. Dabbing the brush in the open can of graphite powder, I made my first gradient stroke along the right upper side of the canvas.

Mr. Ryne rose from his chair and was beside me after I finished the stroke. I stepped back and watched as he peeled up the thin layer of paper and ripped it from the rest, wadded it up and pointed at the new empty canvas. "Bring me art and creativity."

He tossed the crinkly ball to the floor and sat back down, watching.

I stared blankly for a few seconds, unsure what to make of it. Then I remembered the third week, the lesson we did on lighting and illusions. I dabbed the brush in the graphite, then applied it to the empty canvas—

The sound of tearing paper cut my focus. My heart lurched as Mr. Ryne broke this layer into a ball and made it join the other.

"Bring me art and creativity."

"I . . . I don't know what you want—"

"Art. And creativity."

I stared at the not-really-white canvas. I dabbed. I started at the left side this time.

Riiiiip.

I dabbed, started at the center.

Rip.

I dabbed, used charcoal instead.

Rip.

Rip, rip, rip.

What was I doing wrong?! My hands shook, the paintbrush and its black hairs flurrying in my vision. The floor beneath me tilted and I tasted the bitter tinge of failure on my tongue. Salty almost.

"Something the matter, Miss Larson?"

I shook my head, but could only say in an uneven tone, "I don't know what you want . . ."

He sighed again, bringing his chin to his knuckles as he stared at the paper. "I want you to stop being so simple. Especially when you have the capacity for more. I don't like when my students who are clearly capable of more, settle for less just to pass my class. It pisses me off, and no one likes me when I'm pissed off, so why don't you stop dicking around and make me something that isn't as flat as the paper you mark on."

Was that it? Was that why he singled me out for the disdain? He believed I was capable of more? Why did hope rise in my throat instead of bile?

His eyes weren't gentle in any manner, his muscles were still taut.

He shook his head, the disgust back. "Your problem, Miss Larson, is that you're like that lava lamp there."

He gestured at the blue and teal old lamp. There was the dark blue substance settled at the top, the teal globs floating around the bottom. Globs made him think of me?

"See that dark Prussian blue? That is your brain. The teal, it is your feelings, your creativity. You're only using your brain, trying your damnedest to reach through all of your thoughts and snag at some creativity. Shake up the lamp. Turn the lamp on. Use your feelings to paint your image. Draw from the room around you."

My feelings? This dingy room?

I glanced around, looking at the half done art pieces, the completed art, the shadows cast by the sun, the man watching my every move, and it was impossible to draw anything. To feel anything but nervous and slightly afraid. "There's nothing to draw from," I whispered.

His brows dipped, anger flashing in his eyes. "Nothing to draw from? You are not that dense. This is not the woman who brought me a man in pain and described it as the oppression of life forms of which only he can see. No. This is not the female I recall. So if you want that damn grade," He stood and slapped his hand on the sketchpad, almost knocking over the easel. "Fucking find that woman."

Each of his words were a knife pressing into my skin, causing all the creativity to bleed out and all over the floor uselessly. I couldn't direct it to my hand, not when my head was staticy now, going numb with the sense that maybe it was a one-time thing and all of my creativity had died at the start of the semester.

Still, I dabbed the brush futily in the graphite, and before it even touched the sketchpad, the page was torn away.

His face was flushed red, gnarled, cords of his neck coming into view. He snatched the paintbrush from my hand and cracked it on his knee. "Is this class a joke to you?"

I quickly shook my head. The grade wasn't even worth this shit anymore. The man was crazy and I didn't do crazy.

"Speak the fuck up, Grace."

The use of my first name had me stunted, stutters tripping over my tongue. "N-no-no. No, sir. I-I don't. It's an honor—"

"So what is it then? Impaired? Are you too stupid to give me what I'm asking?"

My sleeves were gone, and my eyes were stinging. I shook my head, unable to speak.

"You want to go learn under that old twat Mr. Frank?"

I was frozen, registering his words, but unable to form real thoughts or responses. He knew I had transferred from his complete course. He knew. He knew this. And all I could do was stare up at him, cement in my stomach, skin tingling with a fight-or-flight sense, but failure repeating at the forefront of it all. Why did I even come here? What made me think I could study beneath the gods and walk away unscathed?

"You want to leave? You can walk out that door right now and forget hopes of passing this class, because I don't have time to hold your hand and teach a dormant mind."

"No, no . . . please, Mr. Ryne. I want to be here. I do." What was I saying?! Why wasn't I running for my bag and the door and calling up Ma and telling her I would be on the first flight home?

He grabbed my upper arms and forced me to face me toward the easel. "Then bring me art."

When he sat back down, some of the tension loosened from my spine, as though that position moved me from striking range.

I stood there for what seemed like hours, staring at the canvas with white stereo static fuzzing in my head. My peripheral had begun to change colors, the fear and sadness gone from my throat. It was when I began to sway that Mr. Ryne's asked quietly, "Do you need some help?"

I dug my nails in my palms, nodded.

"What makes you feel?" he asked.

I didn't look over at him, afraid it would only renew my fear and humiliation. His question barely penetrated the fog of my mind, only enough to make me turn my head slightly upward, to pretend I was mulling over his question when really it helped keep the emotions down.

"No answer?"

I shook my head.

"Okay." The sound of him shifting was a soft rustle. "I'll say something and I want you to tell me the exact feelings to come through you. Not impression, feeling. Do you understand?"

I nodded, so, so numb at this point.

"You're beautiful," he said gently, in a way that stroked away the static in my head and made my breath catch.

What? I wasn't ready. I was still high from his anger and my own reaction.

Beautiful? Was this part of the experiment or did he actually think this of me? I wasn't ugly, no. Maybe after I finished dressing in the long t-shirts and careless sweats, but to hear this statement on his lips, my stomach tightened and against my better judgement, all of his assholery was forgiven as my chest went buoyant, flustered. Beautiful . . .

He carried on in that same low, mesmerizing voice that suggested forbidden things. "You . . . you are art. You have a face I can be taken by instantly. Soft, enticing curls. Delicate brown eyes, a svelte, slender body that pleads for me."

He came to his feet. "To throw you against the wall and fuck you until your lungs give."

My gaze snapped to his at this, legs clamping together as I felt the unreal tingles run straight to my clit, my walls clenching around his words, my breaths quivering to the rhythm of him. I was suddenly hyper aware of the silk panties against the shaved flesh of my lips, as though he was was making the skin down there irate and needy by the words he spoke.

Was he being serious? My chest felt hollow, awkward even. My mind was running around like crazy, unsure how to handle the foreign notion of being pressed against the wall and fucked until my lungs had no screams left to give.

"How does it make you feel, Miss Larson?" he asked, and I felt he knew then, in that mocking voice, I felt he knew. He was the monster in my head. He was the shark in my waters and he had to be toying with me.

How does it make you feel, Grace? It's okay, you can tell me. I'm your therapist.

"I- well, is it true?" I managed.

"Irrelevant. Answer the question. What do you feel when I tell you I want to take you against the wall, slide myself inside of you and just. Go. Wild."

In this clutter?

I looked down, pretending I didn't feel my pussy convulse, tighten at his words. Pretend I didn't imagine his leering frame behind me, pounding again and again, his thighs smacking against mine. And why don't we toss dirty talk in there while we're at it. Him pounding into me and telling me how much of a worthless slut I was, how I would never amount to my aspirations.

That last bit soured the arousal, making me look back toward the canvas. "I honestly don't know. The entire scenario is inappropriate. I just—"

And then he was behind me, his lips vaguely whispering past the curls at my nape, that faint smell of mint and nostalgia cool on his breath. He placed his hands on my hips and spoke low at my ear, derisive. "You what?"

My body jerked at the startling heat of him. The intimacy. For so long I had thought myself shielded by the common constitution. My body had been a temple monsters and men knew not to step foot near. The quickly rising panic in my stomach told me otherwise, saying the monster at my back was not one to adhere to demarcation. "I-I just want to get into-"

"Nova Scotia?" he finished. His voice imitated the low quiver I had heard in my own, though he made the school sound like filth. Or maybe it was his thoughts toward me.

"Mr. Ryne . . . please. This grade means-"

"Everything?" A mirthless chuckle fell dead on my ears and I struggled to swallow the lump forming in my throat.

He traded a hand on my hip for one on my shoulder, gripping with a measured strength. As though he were telling me how I was the twig and he was the beast who could easily snap me. Then he pressed into me, the rough material of his jeans unable to mask the one protruding element probing just above my ass.

Seeing the size differential, the hand remaining on my hip directed my them in an upward arch, probing the erection against my backside. I was breathing, but suddenly, when he rose my hips too high, pushed me onto my toes and had the iron rod pressed raw against the back of my pussy, I tripped forward, weight falling into the hand at my shoulder, air wheezed then trapped in my lungs.

"How does it make you feel, Miss Larson."

Aroused! God, so fucking desperate. But at the same time, the saner part of me told me to get out while I could, not to submit to the monster from my own thoughts.

He released his hold on me, the wrought muscles of his chest hot at my back, the palpable throttle of his heartbeat making mine go crazy. "Roll against me."

"What?"

"Your hips, roll them against me."

Was I afraid or was I angry? Sad or concerned? All four. "I think I should go home," I whispered, easier to mask the tears and arousal that way.

Both hands were back to caging me. Before I could stop it, before I could cry out in protest, one of the hands were beneath my shirt, bra shoved aside, calloused fingers biting into the flesh of one my nipples with mercy set aside.

The pain flared instantly, an intensity so absurd to my flesh I was beyond screaming, instead, a whimper fell past my trembling lips, my hands gone to claw at his. He grabbed them both with his free one, jamming them against my stomach and pinching harder. My toes curled, breath hissed passed my teeth and all at once, tears filled my eyes as I stared at the blank canvas. Static returned.

No escape route. Nothing.

"Roll," he whispered vehemently.

I did, hesitantly at first, but when he rolled and applied his nails to the clamped hold of my nipple, I got the point, moving my hips against his erection with tender, patterned motions. I did this again and again, around and around, until I could hear his breathing gone ragged, his chest rising and following like hot steel against my shoulder blades. I think he whispered, "Jesus Christ" between one of the pants, his fingers releasing my nipple to cup and squeeze my breast as he held me against him almost lovingly.

And this made the pain of my chest subside, my walls clenching once again for him. I rolled my hips higher, curious for him to press against my opening one more time. When it did, I could swear his cock was longer, less yielding. Not expecting this, I'd rolled with too much force, flinching when it stabbed with the resistance of true iron.

"Tell me what you feel," he said into my ear, strained.

I stopped to think about what he had said.

"Don't stop. Keep going and tell me everything."

It took a moment for me to continue, but the closing of his hand around my breast had me continuing in no time. What did I feel as I rolled against this man? This artistic, lunatic man who made me feel lesser than dirt then call me beautiful.

"Angry," I whispered.

"Try again," he said, voice guttural and not the smooth, collective octave I remembered.

"Feelings inject colors into your words, more images into the mind. Try again, Miss Larson."