Is art torture a thing? Because I think Le Rêve has figured out how to make it a thing. At this rate, I’ll never get out of here before completely losing my shit.
6
My arm aches with the effort of holding a brush for so long, and red, angry welts swell on my forearm from where I’ve been struck with a ruler when I dared stop painting.
With shaky strokes, I do my best to illustrate an accurate depiction of the scene we’ve been assigned to paint. A difficult endeavor considering the tears that blur my vision as they stream in silent tracks down my cheeks.
I have no idea how long I work on my painting. Shock and horror swirl inside me until I’m numb from the reality of what I’m looking at. My stomach cramps in hunger while simultaneously churning at the sight before me.
And faced with the brutal murder scene I’m being forced to paint, who can blame me?
Nearby, Dean is slumped over his easel, using it for support as he works to complete our assignment. I wonder if he’s as disgusted as I am. Declan hasn’t reacted, but I suspect he’s had practice hiding his true emotions; something I’ve never been good at.
Twice, I’ve let my hand brush Dean’s and tried sending him the same healing energy I gifted to Declan earlier. But either I’ve lost my touch, or my own hunger and weakness have zapped my reserves. From the looks of it, the entire group is hanging on by a thin thread.
Angus looks ready to keel over, and the fingerless woman has a glazed look in her eye that makes me wonder if she’s truly aware of what’s happening as she swipes her brush over the canvas. Even the girl has gone pale at the sight of our “still life.”
But I’m the only one who tried to stop. Who tried to help. And who was struck repeatedly for it.
Maybe the rest have already learned what I’m coming to understand.
When you don’t obey, you pay.
No one will look directly at the gory scene before us. Not for longer than necessary. Not that we need to study it too intently; it’s only a matter of slashing red paint over the outline of a dead body.
Our teacher, a man who never introduced himself by name and insists we simply call him ‘Sir’, paces along the perimeter of our little class holding a metal ruler like the weapon it is. His crinkled brow and set jaw suggest he’s assessing us for some kind of pass or fail. I don’t even want to think about what will happen if we don’t measure up.
Maybe we’ll meet the same fate as the doctor lying in a pool of his own blood while the rest of us look on in an attempt to memorialize his murder through art.
It’s disgusting.
And I’m more upset than I should be that I’ll never talk with him again.
He was only my therapist, and even that was a short-lived connection. But I can’t help the sense of loss that hollows out the center of my chest as I attempt to paint his lifeless form.
A lump grows in my throat, and more tears leak from my eyes.
When I’m finally finished, I set my brush aside and step back, sniffling. Dean and Declan shoot me a look, but I avoid their eyes, lost to my own sadness.
I’ve seen some things that have scarred me, but this…this is beyond anything I could have imagined being forced to endure. How do they get away with this? How is any of this allowed?
Sir stalks over and frowns as he studies my work.
“You were told to paint exactly what you see,” he snaps.
Declan shoots me a look.
“I did,” I say quickly, gesturing to what is obviously an exact copy of the bloodied corpse that I’m still hoping isn’t really Dr. Livingstone himself. Some desperate part of me thinks maybe it’s a fake brought in from some prop company. It can’t possibly be him. A man who was employed here and alive just yesterday.
Someone couldn’t have committed murder for the sake of our art class.
This place is crazy but it’s not . . . that crazy. Right?
“I am not a man who enjoys humor or tricks, Miss D’LeLune.”
Sir’s tone is cold and full of warning, but I shake my head, pointing.
“I did what you said. I painted the model exactly as I see it,” I insist through the tears and hiccups. I know he can’t complain about my technique. I may not be the next DaVinci, but my skill is solid. It’s the subject matter that’s turning my stomach. Even the morbid work of Theodore Gericault and his severed heads can’t hold a candle to the gruesomeness of what I’m witnessing right now.
Sir glances pointedly towards the door.
Nurse Schmidt steps forward.
“You didn’t tell me this one would be trouble,” he says to her.
She rolls her eyes. “They’re all trouble in one form or another. What do you want me to do about it?”
Sir hisses—actually hisses—and a wave of dizziness washes over me. I sway as the room tilts suddenly sideways. My arm flails as I reach for the easel to steady myself. Instead, I knock my brush loose and it falls, splattering Sir with bright red paint as it clatters to the floor.
Everyone stops painting.
A hush falls over the others.
Declan moves closer, and when I lose my balance, his arms catch me before I can crack my head on the hard floor.
Darkness overcomes me, and for long moments, I am lost to it, vaguely aware of voices and movement around me.
Yelling.
An easel knocked aside.
Footsteps.
Consciousness is within reach, but I reject it, welcoming the easy floating of my own mind if only for a little while.
When I come to, I blink against the harsh lights glaring down from directly above me.
Disoriented, I look right and left, tensing when I realize I’m no longer in the art room. Instead, I’m in some sort of cubicle. The only thing shut inside the drawn curtain is the cot I’m sitting on and a small metal tray on wheels standing against the wall. The others are all gone, including Sir, and relief ribbons through me when I realize he isn’t standing over me, waiting to punish whatever wrong I’ve done.
My memory flashes with the sight of red paint splattering his clothes. I have a feeling he’s going to make me pay for that later.
I sit up, using the wall for support as my head swims.
The room tilts then settles again, and my stomach cramps painfully.
I wince, placing my hand over it until it passes.
“You’re not well.”
The sound of Dr. Livingstone’s voice jars me.
I look up and spot him in the entry, the curtain pulled aside just enough to let him pass. He lets the curtain fall back as he steps inside the space and approaches me.
A scream builds on my lips.
In the trauma of the last couple of hours, the impossibility of seeing him here terrifies me.
“Celeste?”
At the sight of my panic, he reaches for my hand and, just like with Declan, his touch soothes me. When I finally realize it’s really him and not some specter haunting my tortured mind, I exhale.
“You’re alive,” I whisper.
He cocks his head curiously but doesn’t reply.
The cramps in my stomach return, and I concentrate on deep breathing. He pulls his hand from where it covered mine.
“When was the last time you ate?” he asks.
I glance up at him. “I don’t know.”
He curses under his breath.