Maxence the Living Painting: Part Three (complete)

Despite how much he loves painting, and creating art is his passion, Maxence hasn’t yet been able to bring himself to create again. Being trapped within a painting has taken its toll on him, and now painting feels like a burden rather than a joy. It’s hard to watch him struggle, and I know that he wants to overcome this pain. He loves painting, and yet he loathes it.

“Try writing,” I suggest to him. “Maybe pen some poetry or start a journal. Maybe getting something creative out that way can help you.”

Maxence grimaces at the thought. “Writing is so boring. What becomes of it? It’s just words on a page, anyone can make them.”

I give him a harsh glare, slamming the cabinet door shut so he jumps. “If anyone can do it, then why don’t you do it?”

“Well, I...” Maxence clears his throat. “I do not see writing the same way I do painting. I do not know how to place words together to form a perfect picture the way I can random dollops of paint. But...” He exhales heavily. “I can’t even do that these days.”

I look up from the tea kettle and towards him. “There’s a paint-a-plate place in town. Maybe that would be fun.”

His brow pinches and puckers, and he looks at me with a confused, slightly angry look. “A what now?”

“It’s this new type of business. Well,” I shrug, “new for you. But you go in paint a plate or mug, and then the place glazes it and puts it in a kiln for you.”

His look is still one of derision and confusion.

I start filling the tea bags with the loose-leaf blend just to avoid his gaze. “Ok, maybe not for you.”

“Why would I paint a plate?” Maxence grumbles under his breath.

“It’s just fun,” I scoff. “And maybe a little simple and stupid, but maybe that’s what you need! Something sort of stupid to start off with. Something that doesn’t seem threatening to you.” I sigh as my shoulders slouch. “You’re trying to paint like you used to, and when you do, I think you see the things that haunted you.”

Maxence’s eyes glance aside and he turns slowly towards the window. Looking out at the morning fog and rain, he purses his lips and lets out a small laugh.

“Something that isn’t threatening, eh? Perhaps I should have you pose for me.” He grabs my hip and pulls me towards him. “Do a few nude sketches for my own enjoyment.”

“Oh, please,” I roll my eyes. “You see me naked enough. But you’re on the right track.” I smile and tap the tip of his nose. “I don’t know, watch some cartoons. Doodle what you see.”

Maxence wraps his arms around me from behind and places his chin on my shoulder. “I would much prefer drawing you nude.”

“You know I have that article to write,” I scold playfully. “I have to get that done before I consider doing anything.”

“How about we kill two birds with one stone?” He teases. “You write your article naked and I’ll sketch you while you do.”

I sputter with laughter as I try to fill the kettle with water. “You horny blob of acrylic!” I gently elbow him in the stomach. “Let me finish breakfast before you keep trying to seduce me.”

Maxence bites his bottom lip while his eyes give me the once=over. “I don’t need to try, my starling. You’re already mine.”

I stick my tongue out at him as he goes to sit at the breakfast nook. After breakfast, I go work in my office while Maxence continues to try creating again. I’ve started working for an artists’ society that puts out monthly magazines dedicated to art history, restoration, and preservation. They also fund art programs in schools. I was contacted by the society’s founder to write historical pieces on artists whose work had been overshadowed by more famous artists of their time.

Bruce Barbachollo, the founder, was quite fond of some of the papers I published while in school. He contacted me directly, begging me to take the position. I eagerly accepted, as working in my parent’s gallery had started to feel stifling. I have yet to meet him in person - we’ve mainly conversed by email or phone - and I haven’t even seen a picture of him.

After I send the rough draft of the article, I almost instantly receive a call from him. “Yes, Mr. Barbachollo?” I answer the phone brightly.

“Just got your new article.” His baritone voice sounds like it is made for reading complicated novels about Russian war and poverty. “The Women Buried by History. A lot to tackle in a small article.”

“I thought of it more as an illuminator rather than an entire history,” I say uncertainly. Really, I was nervous about the piece from the start. It seems any time I write an article about women, I get harsh feedback.

“If you’re trying to illuminate how history has forgotten these women, you’ve merely lit a candle in a long hallway,” he laughs. “I think, based on this article and others you’ve done before, you may have a book here.”

I open my mouth to speak, but the air has been sucker-punched from my body. “A book?” I’m laughing, floundering with my words. “A book? Really?”

“Yes,” Barbachollo replies brightly. “I think that would be a good investment on my part. Let’s say the two of us meet up for lunch one day to discuss it. Prepare an outline and we can go over it together.”

“Yes! Yes, of course! Thank you, Mr. Barbachollo.” We schedule a day to meet, and once we hang up I get to work on an outline for the book.

There is a knock on my door. When I look up from my laptop, I realize have been working for well over three hours. “Come in!”

I turn in my chair as Maxence walks into the room. “You’re awfully busy. I thought I should check on you.” Maxence’s eyes dart over me, giving me a quick inspection. “Everything going all right?”

I nod and stand up. “I have some really good news! My boss wants me to write a book based on some of my articles.”

“Oh, boy,” Maxence grimaces. “And here I was making fun of such a thing.” He takes hold of my face and kisses me. “I’m proud of you, starling.”

“I’m so excited!” I bounce on the heels of my feet. “I wanted to get the outline done and try tooling with it before I have a meeting with him.”

Maxence looks at my computer screen. “So what is it about?”

“Female artists in history, especially ones who have been forgotten or glossed over.” I do a few stretches and my back pops from where I had been sitting for too long.

Maxence frowns. “But you always seem to get yelled at when you cover women in your article. Remember that one letter they actually published?”

“My boss seems to think it’s a good idea. We’re going to meet for lunch next week to discuss plans for it.” I look him over and take a breath. “What about you? Did you manage to draw anything?”

Maxence shrugs. “Nothing, really. Just some doodles.”

“That’s better than nothing! You at least did something.”

His smile is small and unconvinced. He hangs his head and presses his lips into a tight line. “I just wish I wasn’t so afraid.”

I think for a moment, then take hold of his hand. “Why not come to the meeting with my boss? He’s well-versed in art history and technique, and maybe seeing his collection and hearing his thoughts will help you.”

“I don’t want to intrude on your meeting. This is your time to shine, mine will come later. Or it already has,” he scoffs.

“Just come,” I insist. “Please?”

Maxence starts to smile. “Okay, but only so I can brag about you the entire time we are there. No one will talk about me.”

I smile and tilt my head up to meet his kiss. “That’s fine.”

The following week, Maxence and I go to Barbachollo’s home for the meeting. It’s an old manor house that looks like something from a Brontë sisters novel. I have all my documents with me in a neat little folder, and I have dressed to impress. 

“This place is perturbing,” Maxence mutters as we walk towards the front door. 

“It’s just old. Most old houses look creepy.” I glance at him to see a distressed look on his handsome face. “Is it really bothering you?”

“I’m not sure.” Maxence tries to laugh it off. “I just have this unusual weight upon my chest. As if there is doom beyond that front door.”

“I’m nervous too,” I whisper. I knock on the door. “But I wouldn’t say it’s a feeling of doom exactly.” 

Moments later, the door opens and Barbachollo is standing there. He’s a tall, thin, pallid man with his dark hair swept back, revealing a striking widow’s peak. Instantly, Maxence grabs hold of my hand and squeezes tight.

“There you are, Ms. Haydee. And this must be your lucky paramour. Come in.” He stands aside in the doorway. “I’m just getting lunch finished. If you don’t mind waiting in the parlor, I’ll come fetch you when it’s ready.”

“Thank you so much for having us,” I say. “Your home is quite striking.”

Maxence remains silent, but his hand is crushing mine. He stands stiff at the entrance, holding me back as I try to walk inside. When I won’t relent, he follows me, staying so close to me that I begin to feel suffocated. Barbachollo leads us to the parlor. Once he’s gone, Maxence grabs me.

“We have to get out of here!” He shakes me, and the look on his face frightens me.

I pull away from him and slap his hands back. “What the hell has gotten into you?” I hiss at him. 

“That man…” His eyes are wide, and tears start to roll down his cheeks. He cups his hand over his mouth. “It… it can’t be! But he looks…” His eyes squeeze shut and he starts to shake.

“Maxence,” I say sternly. “Max.” I place my hands on his arms, then cup my hands on his cheeks and feel his tears. “Look at me. Tell me five things you see.”

He jerks back from me. “Baldassar Barbachollo is who I saw!”

I furrow my brow at him. “The demon who trapped you?”

Maxence points towards the hallway. “It’s him.” He shakes his finger. “It’s him! I know it’s him!”

“That’s impossible. That’s…” I shake my head as I cast my eyes towards the ground. “Are you sure?”

Maxence trembles when he takes a breath. “We need to get out of here, Haydee. Please. Make any excuse! We have to go.”

“But my job... I…” I stop myself and nod. “Okay, that’s fine.” I take hold of his hand. “We’ll excuse ourselves. It’s okay.”

Maxence falls into my arms, holding me tightly and hiding his face in my hair. “Thank you,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry.” Then he gasps and moves me so I am behind him.

“Oh, hello there.” A woman with long red hair stands in the hallway. She steps into the room, and Maxence moves us back. “It’s been a long time.” 

I recognize her as the woman from my nightmares. My throat closes up and I find I can barely breathe.

“Madelena.” Maxence stands stiffly and swallows his fear. 

She smiles and nods. “I’m so happy you seem to remember me. How have you been, Maxence? You seem to be doing much better.”

“Madelena,” Barbachollo’s voice scolds. He appears behind her in the hallway and grabs her shoulder. “Do not frighten our guests.”

Her pitch-black eyes look to him before turning back on us. “I’m merely saying hello.”

Barbachollo pushes her back. “Go set the table. Lunch is ready.” He comes into the room and stands over us. Madelena smirks before she goes. “I do hope you haven’t lost too much of your appetite.”

“I think we should leave.” I grasp hold of Maxence’s hand. 

“Nonsense. Stay, enjoy a meal.” Barbachollo snaps his fingers, and all the curtains on the windows close. The whole room goes dark, save for the glow emanating from his mouth. “It’s been a long time.”

I’m grabbed from behind and pulled away from Maxence, deep into the darkness. Screaming, I feel myself falling backwards into the shadows. The hands that hold me slam me to the ground, and a hand covers my mouth. 

“Be easy with her.” Barbachollo’s booming voice echoes all around. 

Candles illuminate the room, revealing us to be in the center of a circle of artist’s easels. Madelena stands above me like she does in my dreams, naked, her body smeared black. 

“You should thank her.” Barbachollo appears at the edge of the circle, still shrouded in shadows. “She found what you lost.”

Madelena glares down at me, her teeth bared. “Stay put.” She walks away from me, approaching her father, who walks into the circle on the floor around me.

List five things you can see.

One: my death. Two: the easels. Three: my death. Four: the stones of the floor. Five: my death.

“Where is he?” I call out. “Where’s Maxence?”

As Barbachollo approaches me, the easels start to rise up off the ground. Paint brushes and spatulas start to fall away from them and clatter to the ground. I scoot away from Barbachollo, watching as horns begin to grow from his eye sockets. His body lurches, twisting and cracking as he starts to take his demonic form.

I scream and stand up to run, but instantly fall again as I trip on a paint brush. I look up and shield myself with my arms as Barbachollo reaches down and grabs me by the throat. 

List four things you feel.

One: his hand on my throat. Two: the blood rushing to my face. Three: the cold stone on my back. Four: the spatula jabbing into my back.

“He has promised to stay with us as long as we let you go,” Barbachollo chuckles. “But, he does not need to know the truth. We can’t have you coming back again.”

I take one of the spatulas from the ground and stab into his arm. Over and over, I drive it down into his wrist until he lets me go. I scramble, jumping up from the ground and sprinting away. Madelena lunges from the shadows and tries to topple me, but I slash her across the face and keep running. She screams horribly, and I can feel her breathing down my neck.

I throw open a door and nearly fall down a flight of stairs. I don’t stop to look back. Instead, I go down the stairs, running as I hear them approaching me from behind. I stumble into a room filled with candles. I quickly shut the door and bolt it. As I face the rest of the room, I see a bed and, on it, a body. I lunge towards it. Maxence is lying there, wearing the same clothing from his painting.

“Maxence!” I cry and pat his face. “Maxence! Wake up!”

I hear them in the stairwell. Then they start beating against the door. 

List three things you hear.

One: The demons pounding on the door. Two: my heart in my ears. Three: Maxence’s breathing.

“Max!” I scream at him, but he won’t stir. The longer I stare at him, the more paint I see on his skin. I see more defined brush strokes, thicker swathes of paint. “No, no.” I shake my head. I turn to the door as it buckles under our pursuers’ blows. I touch Maxence’s cheek, and can feel canvas instead of skin. As I look at my fingertips, I see they are thickly dusted in pastel and my palm is wet with paint. On the wall is a dagger piercing a shield. I take it off the wall and find that it is still quite sharp.

As the door breaks, Madelena squeezes herself through the crack. She rises from the ground, frothing at the mouth as horns rise from the back of her head, curling forward as if pointing towards me. Her face is slashed, and she has to keep one of her eyes squeezed shut. 

With a horrible scream, she lunges at me, grabbing at my wrist to wrestle the dagger from me. We struggle until we fall to the floor. She has me on my back, but I kick her in the gut over and over. She strikes me hard across the face and I accidentally let go of the dagger. Madelena goes to grab it, but I jump on her. I force her down to the ground and bash her head into the stone floor while she screams. Grabbing the dagger, I plunge it into her back.

List two things you can smell.

One: blood. Two: ashes.

The door splinters even more as Barbachollo tries to fight his way inside. The heavy wooden bolt across the door is bulging, nearly splitting in the middle. Madelena is far beyond enraged at this point. She’s stabbed in the back, but she keeps coming at me. I keep the dagger tight in my clutches.

“Madelena,” Maxence croaks from the bed. “It’s so cold in here.”

She turns her head towards him and I strike, plunging the blade deep into her heart. She slashes at me, knocking me to the foot of the bed. She rushes towards me but, as she does, her body turns to ash and floats away.

The dagger clatters to the floor, and I go to Maxence’s side. The paint strokes are starting to fade, but barely. He touches my face and smiles weakly but then fear fills his eyes as Barbachollo wrenches the bolt off the door and storms into the room. As he comes towards us, he starts to wither. 

Maxence pulls me into his arms and holds me tight.

List one thing you can taste.

One: Maxence.

Barbachollo snarls, coming closer to us as he dries up like an old flower. He falls to the ground, now a husk of himself. I sob into Maxence’s chest and hold tight to him. 

I slowly open my eyes and look around the room. I’m at home in my own bed, with Maxence sleeping peacefully beside me.

“No. Was it?” I clasp my hands around my head and chuckle. “That dream again,” I whisper.

Maxence grunts and rolls over. “Are you okay?”

“I’m not sure,” I murmur. “I was… I think I was dreaming.”

Maxence sits up and pushes his hair away from his face. “Did you stab Madelena?” He rubs his eyes. “Because that’s what I was dreaming.”

I furrow my brow at him. “And Barbachollo just dried up.”

His eyes widen and a slight smile comes to his face. “Yeah.”

I wrap my arms around him. “Maybe it’s over.”

He nods and rubs his hand down my back. “We can only pray,” he sighs. His lips brush against my neck. “Thank you.”

“For what?” I sigh as he kisses my jaw and cheek.

Maxence chuckles, raising his head to look me in the eyes. “You fought off demons for me.” He strokes his thumb across my bottom lip. “It’s not every day you find a girl like that.”

I kiss his thumb, then gently nip at it. “It was only a dream.”

Maxence lays me back down on the bed. “You and I both know it wasn’t.” He kisses me deeply as his body presses against mine.

“I’d like to keep pretending it was,” I whisper. I brush my fingers through his hair to sweep it away from his eyes. I smile at him, meeting his kiss again.

Maxence sighs and kisses my cheek. “Wait,” he whispers. “I feel something.”

“It’s the roll of quarters I sleep with,” I chuckle.

“No,” he rises up off the bed. “It’s urgent.” A big grin spreads across his face. “Come with me.” He grabs my hand and drags me into the spare room where I set up a studio for him. He sets me down and kisses me. “Stay there, okay?”

“What’s going on?” I ask. Then I see him take out his supplies and start mixing paints. I bite down on my cheek and smile proudly. “You want to paint?”

“More than anything.” He looks to me with a huge grin. “I’m not afraid.”

I stay posed for him until the sun starts to rise. Maxence decides to take a break, and we make love there on the floor before we make breakfast. Afterwards, he continues to paint alone, no longer needing me for reference. He paints for hours, and I have to force him away to come to dinner.

“It’s amazing!” He laughs. “I haven’t felt this in so long.” He hugs his arms around himself. “I finally feel free.”

“Can I see it?” I motion to the canvas.

“Not yet,” he grins and kisses me. “I’m far from done with you.”

It isn’t for another few weeks that he calls me into his studio to show me the painting. When he does show it to me, I’m floored. I don’t believe it is me at first until he starts going over the details. 

“It’s my love letter,” he murmurs. “I can’t write, but these are all the words I would want to write down for you.”

I kiss him and pull him into my arms. “I can read it,” I whisper. “I love it.”