For the Love of Art Pt. 05

AN: I should really write these notes before writing the installment, because after spending a bucket load of energy on the installment, it's kinda hard to follow up with an 'I'm sorry for abandoning the story for two years and a half' note. But alas, I am very sorry. I didn't intend to return to this writing, but leaving stories incomplete is something I've discovered I can't do, and I'm glad Lit didn't delete my account like I told them to.

I'll be good and not make any promises this time around until I see how consistent I can be. I know giving hope is a dangerous weapon, so I'll chill on doing that for now. In the meantime, given I did finally strip The Shatters from this site (still working out the mechanics of the series), given SSH was a personal story, and given I do have to have a balance of supernatural stories in my arsenal, feel free to be on the lookout for Her Rules sometime this month- which will just be a regular, non-cyoa story. Feel free to spit on any hope of my following through with it.

I will TRY to stick to a weekly basis. I will TRY to update and not be a loser about it.

Also, as an aside, I take all criticism as an opportunity for me to better my writing for the next installments, learn from my own mistakes. You all see things I can't necessarily see when I'm writing it, so even those who decide to get nasty in the comment section, I appreciate you, mi amor.

Without further ado, I give you the long overdue installment that I was convinced would never come~

*****

The truth. We all say we want it, are willing to put everything on the line to obtain it, but in the grand, ironic scheme of things, doesn't that just make us liars ourselves? Because we've heard it time and again, the old adage: ignorance is bliss. We want the truth, but not the consequence, and certainly not the pain. Never the pain.

However, when I put the computer to sleep and descended the stairs to meet Mr. Ryne, the ignorance didn't feel all that blissful. In fact, I carried it like a block of cement with each step I took. Distance, yawning and stretching between myself and what lay inside of that folder, to the point that when I spied the black expedition across the alabaster pavements, the cement had worked its way to my chest, barring out even the winter's cold. Ignorance is never bliss. I just hoped I didn't learn that the hard way.

The campus was deserted, signifying the holiday break. The iron painted sky released flurries of snow like glitter, mixing into the palls of smoke shivering past my lips. It was a scenic display that normally I'd have wanted to immortalize into a painting or sketch, but there was hardly time for such a fruitless indulgence, let alone any impetus of my own.

Once at the passenger side of the vehicle, I took a deep breath, unsure what I was preparing myself for. His dismay? Or seeing his face after what I'd seen?

Inconsequential. I opened the door and slid inside, my first instinct being to apologize profusely, but it was overwritten by doubt in my ability to not say something I shouldn't have. Reveal something better left hidden. I opted for stapling my eyes to the dash, buckling my seatbelt and saying a quick thanks for picking me up.

The expedition lurched forward into the swirls of snow, shifting into traffic. He said nothing, which was infinitely worse than had he said anything at all. Was he wondering why I was late? Was he upset about it? I couldn't bring myself to look at him, but my gaze inevitably trailed to his general direction. His hands on the wheel. The grip was sure, his control of the car steady. Funny, the correlation: when we kissed, wasn't his grip always sure, his control of me impeccably steady? So why not translate such certainty into the wondrous craft of mutilation and other twisted things?

I sat back and leaned my head against the window, holding down bile. The heat blowing from the vent did little to help, because despite the cold, I was burning up and my chest was heavy and... Why was I here? Why did I have to dig deeper? Why—

"When you present your piece, your nerves need to be in check."

I jumped at the sudden sound of his voice, condensed into the personable space and adding to the weight in my chest. It made me look at him, drawing me back to how many times I've viewed this man the last few months and thought I'd seen him clear as day, but just then, as I witnessed him in his white dress shirt and tie, I felt as though I'd lost all sense of sight. Had I ever truly seen him?

I composed myself. Nerves? Right, those nerves. I'd forgotten we were even on our way to what could be the turning point in my education, a starting point for my career. Self-validation.

"Sorry," I muttered, the five letter word an extension of myself by now. It's easy for the mind to wander from the greater picture when there's such intricate minor details. The folder, it would be there when I returned, so why was I shaking beneath my skin?

Because what if.

What if this man beside me was the monster my mind had painted him as from the start? What then was I to do? What could I do? I didn't even have the entire story, a story that was very much woven inside of my own head.

"Grace?"

This time I didn't jump, only clenched my hands to fists and made a point of staring out the window of the world in winter. "I'll have them under control," I whispered, then cleared my throat and said it louder, specifying, "The nerves I mean."

"No," he said. "That's not what I wanted."

What he wanted?

"I want to know that you're okay. These past few days you've been different and I can't say I'm a fan of being in the dark on certain matters if I can improve the state of them."

My nails were biting into my palms now. I had to relax, even if it was just me lying to my body. And to him. I loosened my muscles and took a deep breath, exhaled. "If you're worried about us dating—"

"I'm not."

"If you're worried about—"

"You're being evasive. Something as simple as you telling me how you're doing shouldn't be so difficult." His voice maintained a steady, inviting tread. Absence of upset, pressure. That same manner of speaking I'd heard him use plenty of times with other students, usually when they doubted their work and needed hand-holding to see it through. It was a tone he seldom—if ever—used with me.

What did that mean? Means you're overthinking it.

"Nervous," I said. "I have been since you went out of your way to get me this slot, to help me prepare for this day. Not only am I representing you as your prodigy, but also the university. I've only ever seen my own classmates at work. Those from other equally honed academies could be leagues ahead of me and I just... I don't know. I'd hate to disappoint everybody."

Lies. They do strange things to the mind. They warp it, makes you more adaptable to pressurized situations. More comfortable with slipping down the easy route and severing the ties of trust in favor of soothing the moment. What other option did I have? There was no way I could bring myself to reveal what I'd done, the true level of invasion I'd conducted. There was no way I could face the look he would give me, the look that conveyed the tact of betrayal from someone he helped polish into something.

You could stop digging.

I could stop digging.

Warmth enveloped my clenched hand and I looked down to find Mr. Ryne's large one, and with that, I couldn't not finally look to his face, where dark, short curls were styled back, jaws clean shaved, and piercing blue eyes flitting briefly from the road to glean mine. "You're right," he said.

I blinked and continued to stare. I'd been ready for reassuring words, something gentle, which in hindsight, was laughable given the person I expected them from.

"I want to see you succeed, Grace, because I believe you have something to show the world. So I won't lie to you. I've told you before, and I'll tell you again—this gala is a big deal; treat it as such and don't embarrass me or our school." And with that, he released my hand.

Neither of us spoke again until we reached the gala.

By that time, when I should have been getting a rein of my emotions and becoming the prestigious entity I was to fool the audience into thinking I was, I instead had doubled down in cramps I didn't let show on my face. Nerves that'd seemed to have multiplied. Not only from what I'd seen, what I'd done, but now also what I was meant to do.

Before us, I witnessed with my own eyes just how high end the mere architecture of the art gallery was. The design itself was art. A primary medium of glass spanning nearly the distance of the street itself, the structure was massive. From inside, a bronze glow of light spilled off into the violet approaching night and blue chill. I could see the chandeliers from here, just as I could see the extravagant attire those milling in for the event adorned. Through the vents of the car, the warm air began to smell of a delicate sweetness, toasted cinnamon rice or cookies, signifying edibles just beyond the brilliantly shaped glass.

I'd never seen or heard of this place in my life. No surprise as I'd never been outside of a 30 mile radius of campus as far as Canada was concerned. All the same, I was as much in love with it as I was fearful of mingling amongst those inside.

"Go on, then," I heard Mr. Ryne prompt. "I have to park."

I was about to argue that they had a valet, but caught myself. Some of earlier's cement dropped to my stomach. I'd forgotten we couldn't be seen together, hence the tinted windows and only now did I notice he'd endeavored on the side entrance rather than the front. I had to go in alone. Past or no past, I'd have rather walked in with a monster than no one at all. At least in the prior scenario, the sharks he warned me of on the inside would recognize like.

"Don't make that face. You'll be fine. You look perfectly presentable. Your piece has already been put on display, and I've seen the others. They're deplorable. Here, take this." He curled my fingers around a pamphlet—no, a booklet cradling my ticket inside.

I accepted, a 'thank you' prepared on my lips.

But then he leaned across to kiss me, his hand on my neck, anchoring my head back, that enormous wave of strength accompanying him as it always did like a rising tide. I'd always bowed before it before, waited with alacrity for it to crash into me and set its chill deep beneath the skin.

Not this time.

I shifted away from him the barest inch.

It was just an increment. The slightest tug back when his lips brushed mine. However, that was all it took. That's all it ever takes sometimes in relationships built on lust more than anything else. One simple gesture or one simple word, and suddenly, all that'd been stitched came undone. I'd tried to hide my unease with what I'd seen in the folders, had tried to disguise it as complete nerves towards the event, but it was more than that. Just my mere shifting away from him was evidence of it.

His hand dropped away as he withdrew back into the driver's seat, his features resigned in the bronze light of the art gallery melting through the windshield. Which bothered him most, that I'd pulled away or that he knew there was more, something I wasn't telling him?

"Mr. R—"

"Don't be late," he said, taut and strict, no room for my excuses. Did I even have one to give him?

After a moment of watching him, unable to communicate the appropriate words, I gave up and slipped out of the car, feeling like a dog being put outside for doing something wrong. Which was an understatement. I'd done things beyond wrong, at this point. And now I'd gone and wounded his pride, possibly even his deeply buried feelings. Which was the last thing I wanted.

As I watched the car round into the garage entrance, only then did I begin to feel the cold.

********

At the door, my ticket was accepted with little fuss, and I was scarcely able to erase the incident when faced with the grandeur of the gallery's interior. Beneath my flats, the parquet was a span of designs that must have been carefully planned before the first wood of the lozenge pattern was dropped. The shade of cherrywood refracted the brilliant gold of the chandeliers like a choreographed dance, and the people who walked the floors ranged from an eloquent choice of suit and dress to one girl who could have effortlessly blended among a flock of peacocks.

Despite the bright allure, it was all impossibly...contemporary. At least, as far as the interior layout was concerned, which was perhaps for the best. When it came to any place hosting a plethora of different forms of artwork year-round, space efficiency was of greater necessity than any grand contours. The exterior had been enough.

Around me, conversation fuzzed like static.

Along the east wing's corridor and wall presented the digital art displays, everything ranging from general manipulation to an odd sequence of motion art that reminded me of shifting kaleidoscopes. A crowd stood marveling at every other piece there, their intrigue seeming to run in hand with the classical music throughout the bodies.

A great deal were gathered and taking note of the the west wing's panels—paintings, sketches, woodwork, and threadart. That must have been where my painting presided.

But mostly, the majority gathered around the food tables which were adorned in white table skirts that brushed the immaculate floors. Platters of edibles the perfect size for plucking up and wandering on your way were laid out in full. And of course there was a chocolate fountain and fruit of one's choice.

Stepping off to the side, it was impossible not to feel awkward, let alone entirely exposed. Behind me was the scape of glass in either direction of me and in front was an entire mass of strangers. It made me wonder if goldfish always felt this vulnerable. With a deep breath, I looked inside the program that'd been rooming with my ticket. Doors may have closed at 7, but the judging and auctions didn't begin until 8. And until then, what was I supposed to do, eat, talk, sip champagne and enjoy myself like a normal person?

In the end, seeing as there was a higher chance of pigs falling from the sky than that happening, I settled for stealing a glass of the fizzing beverage and hunting down my piece, determined to float in its vicinity until ordered to do otherwise.

As it turned out however, no matter how long I held the fine-rimmed glass to my lips, stared up at my mounted portrait, and tried my level best to rehearse all Mr. Ryne and I had been over, my thoughts were a landslide.

I wasn't even registering my own portrait as much as I was reliving that fleeting instance in the car. I'd leaned away from him. And that small little gesture made the loudest noise in my head. Some part of me had always harbored fear towards him, but no part of me had ever expected it to be validated.

By a website no less.

Not that it could even be considered validation as much as my own speculation around one demented video. A video he hadn't appeared in once and a clandestined folder with his name beneath it. So what did that say about all of my unease in his company? Was it as irrational as logic dictated it to be?

Just how far did I expect this... whatever it was was we had between us, to continue if I remained in the dark with my own thoughts? Left to nitpick the most terrible of details and piece them together into my own perfect horror? The incident in the car would be but one of many if I didn't make an effort to patch it up.

And there was only one way to really do that, wasn't there?

I would have to talk to him about it. All of it. Reveal to him what I'd done, what I'd found, and only in the face of this revelation would the seeds of doubt and fear wither. I had to, or the only direction left for us was down.

"Terrible, isn't it?"

My brows shot up and I nearly choked in the middle of my absent-minded sipping. Lowering the glass from my lips, I turned to the owner of the voice, trying not to look like I'd just gotten a grape lodged in my throat.

At once I was struck by the owner of the peacock dress and all of its daring colors. From afar, it'd looked helplessly ridiculous. Up close, I realized it was downright gorgeous. Silks fanned in a feather-like tail behind a girl whose eyes reminded me of the Northern Lights, emerald with dashes and flecks of twilight. Brunette waves fell to slender shoulders, making her out to be something both exotic and ethereal.

I actually stuttered at first, then looked at the champagne in my hand. I hadn't actually tasted what I was drinking, too caught up in my head. "It's not that bad," I said.

"Not the drink, this." She notched her chin to the painting—my painting—then shook her head. "Can't believe they allowed his students to participate."

His students? Were there others from my class here tonight?

I would have asked had I not been speechless. Too shocked by the audacity to feel the hurt of criticism.

"Anyway," the girl went on, touching my arm lightly the way people tended as though we'd known one another for more than ten seconds. "I'm Sabrina."

I blinked, my lips trying to smile, but turning up into something less than thrilled. To cover, I rambled on before I could stop myself. "I-I guess. I thought there was only one of Mr. R—Dimitri's students participating, and if so, I don't think the painting's that bad, considering everything else here. I'm pretty sure someone entered a rubber band ball."

She scoffed. "Oh, please. That washed up teacher always enrolls as many of his students as he can, hoping one of the degenerates gives his fading name a pinch of notoriety. But every year it's the same. Except, you're right, this may be the only one."

I wasn't sure how to feel about the insult this female gave to the name of the artist I looked up to most. Not to mention the man I was vaguely somewhat dating. Part of me rationalized anger and protectiveness, while the other part imagined Dimitri Ryne as something larger than life, something that, in the face of an insult like the one this girl had just dished, would simply swallow the jibe into nonexistence. He didn't need my protecting.

On the other hand, I was discovering me and criticism weren't so friendly after all. Her words were like a slow dissolving acid in my throat, causing a burn that had absolutely better not be tears or I may as well have resigned to sit out the gala before it even begun.

"What do you mean every year's the same?" I asked as way of distraction, though the smarter course of action would have been to walk away and get myself together and ready to prove her wrong.

"There are only so many spaces available at the gala. Instructors and artists worth their weight in gold are allowed to enter three of their prodigies each year based on a scoring system used the previous year from their former chosen students."

"You mean the judgment goes beyond first, second and third?"

She gave me a questioning look, likely wondering if I was even a participant or plus one to one of the participants seeing as I was so ignorant to the rules. "Those who don't place this year, their art still receives a set number of points. It's how they determine starting bids for the auction portion. Highest a student can earn is 25 points if they didn't place. And these points don't so much matter to the student—outside of money, obviously—as it does the instructor. For an instructor or artist to enter students the following year, the prior year's students have to meet a certain criteria: for however many students they choose to enroll, be it one, two or the max, three, their collective points have to total over two thirds the cap: 30. Either that, or one of the students have to place. And last year? None of Dimitri's students placed. Not a single one. And their points were below 30 collectively. Technically he shouldn't have been allowed to enroll the one he did this year, but because he's the coordinator, he skeeved a spot on the docket." She shook her head and chuckled. "Jokes on him, though. Next year they'll have a different coordinator, and the only way for him to enroll any of his students would be if this disgrace of a portrait places. And if it did somehow miraculously place," She snorted. "Could any of the rest of us call ourselves artists?"