Living Painting (complete)

    Growing up, our home was always filled with artwork. For generations, my family has been artists and collectors. My father was both, and my mother was an auctioneer who also collected artwork. As a child, we made it a tradition to change the artwork every summer. I can remember walking into the storage building out back with my father and seeing the rows upon rows of paintings all stacked so neatly inside. It was like a library the way my parents had it organized. My dad used to call it the Art Locker.

    When I was little, I would sneak into the Art Locker, and I would hide there. It was always cool in there, due to the special air conditioning unit that kept it the same temperature at all times to protect the artwork. It has a unique smell to it too. All the paint mixed together with the scent of the disinfectant and cleaner Mom used. It felt safe in there. I used to love wandering around, and stealing peeks at the covered artwork. I also felt terrible for the artwork. I had always been taught that artwork was to be seen and admired. The painters and artists worked, sometimes years, on their craft and that dedication and love, and talented deserved to be seen. Yet, the same people who taught me that, kept most of their prized collection tucked away.

    One day, my mother got delivery from an unknown source. She said it was from a relative of ours, she wasn’t quite sure how we were related, somehow they just were. They owned an antique shop, and they had gotten in these paintings they weren’t sure how to price or do anything with, so they gave them to her. Most of them were unframed canvases, and Mom didn’t look too enthused with them.

    “They’re old for sure,” mom sighs as she looks them over.

    “This one is pretty,” you say. The painting depicts a lovely young man dressed in royal purples and golds. He’s standing in a garden full of roses and hydrangea. In the distance, there are the white peaks and towers of a castle.

    “There is no signature though, no way of knowing who painted it,” my mother sighs. “I’ll have to get Varrick to come look at these.” I watch as she tucks the paintings away, and it is probably the last time we even think of them for a while. My mother forgets about them, forgets calling her appraiser Varrick, and I forget too. For a while at least.

    My father saw a talent in me when I was young, something he said could become great and admirable someday. So, I was sent away to a private school where I could be classically trained in traditional painting and arts. After that, I traveled, interning under several famous artists and learning from them. Most of them were pompous and weird, actually all of them. It’s hard to find an artist who is down to earth these days. I found I learned more for street artists than the professionals. So that was where I tended to drift. One of my favorites was a woman who painted with wine and coffee, and she taught me more about art than I ever knew. 

    She also told fortunes using the old coffee grounds from her art supplies. One night, during one of our long painting sessions she decides to read me my fortune. 

    “The love of your life is waiting on you,” she murmurs.

    I laugh at this. It’s totally ridiculous. “How can that be?”

    “You met them long ago, and they’ve loved you ever since,” she says, her eyes are unfocused, and she seems to be staring into a great distance. I look into the pot, seeing the coffee grounds and not much else. I look at her and shake my head.

    “There’s no way,” I murmur unsurely.

    “Your mother introduced you,” she whispers. 

    That is even more unlikely. My mom wanted me to get married, but she never liked anyone enough to introduce me to them. “Are you sure it’s me?”

    “He’s French,” she says. “And very handsome.”

    I throw my hands up in the air. “Ok, you’ve lost me.”

    She smirks at me and laughs, her eyes coming back into focus. “You should go back home,” she tells me.

    I had wanted to. I was missing my parents, and it would be nice to relax for a while. “Is the French guy there?” I ask.

    She shrugs. “Perhaps. I can’t tell you everything you know?”

    I make plans to go home with my parents the next day. They are all too excited to have me home. Mom recently sold off a great big chunk of their art collection, so they were turning a part of the Art Locker into a workspace. My dad had intended to use it, but he said it felt creepy to him, so they offered it to me. I loved the Art Locker, so I was very excited to have it as my own.

    Inside they had walled off a part of it, there was also a loft where they had fixed me up a cozy room. They had filled the workspace with every sort of supply I would need as well as the tiniest kitchen area I had ever seen. I don’t know what my dad was talking about, this felt like home to me, not creepy at all!

    My mom moved some canvases into the workroom. “You can use paint over these,” she tells me. “They aren’t worth anything and have been rotting away in storage.”

    “Thanks, Mom, but doesn’t that seem like such a waste?” I ask as I flip through the paintings. I then see it, the royal in purple standing in the rose garden. I stare at it for the longest time.

    “Oh right, you liked that one when you were little,” Mom says. “Keep them if you want. I just thought you could recycle them.”

    “Yeah, of course,” I murmur. I set the prince aside for myself. As I look at it, I don’t quite remember there being figures in the background of the painting. Then again, I hadn’t seen this picture since I was little. Still, I had very clearly remembered the royal being alone. I touch the canvas to feel the brush strokes, but where I touch I feel something strange. I feel the velvet of the royal’s clothes. I feel the silkiness of his hair. I rub a rose and reel back in pain. I look at my fingertip and see I’m bleeding. In the painting, there is a thorn on the rose with a drop of blood on it. I huff and shake my head. I move the picture aside and go wash my hands.

    After having dinner with my parents, I return to my new little studio. I notice that the painting has tipped over, so I pick it up. I’m stunned. The figures that were in the distance of the garden aren’t there anymore. The towers of the castle have flags on them. Then I look at the royal, he has a smile on his face, and his hand is laid over his heart.

    “What?” I whisper. I set the painting down, staring at it. I felt like I was going crazy. I took a picture of it with my phone. “I’ve got my eye on you.” I point to the royal and then head up to the loft to go to bed.

    The next morning I come downstairs and see the painting has slightly altered again. The figures have returned, only they are much closer to the royal this time. The royal is smiling, and his hand is stretched out. 

    I check the picture I took on my phone the night before, and sure enough, the painting has changed. “Holy shit,” I whisper. I look at the royal’s outstretched hand, and I felt like he was offering it to me. I look back at his face and his soft smile. His hair is in dark curls, and he has the face of an angel. I go to touch his hand then I scoff at myself. I was being silly. Sure the painting was changing, but there must be a reason for it right?

    I go make myself a cup of coffee, hoping I’m just still half asleep and possibly hallucinating. When I go back to the painting, the courtiers in the background are further in the distance. The royal’s expression has shifted, his eyes are pleading, and his hand is further stretched out. 

    I touch the painting with my palm and the next thing I know I am being pulled forward. I am yanked from my place and dragged through the canvas. I land ungracefully on the ground on top of someone.

    “Are you alright?” His voice is melodic and soft.

    I look up, seeing his dark curls are hanging before his eyes. He smiles and chuckles. “You look dazed,” he says. He brushes my hair from my face. Thick ringlets catch my attention. I realize my hair is different and I am wearing a huge pink gown instead of my pajamas.

    “Where am I?” I gasp. “What’s going on?”

    “Hush, hush, my love” the royal coaxes me. “You are safe. Don’t be afraid.” He kneels before me as I gather myself. 

    I look around, seeing a strange world of bright, rosy hues. “Where am I?” I whisper. He helps me stand, and he holds my hand. 

    “You’re in my garden,” he replies. “And I am honored to finally have you here beside me.”

    I look him over, his face more clearly now than before. He’s handsome and tall, his skin looks like dark amber and his eyes are bright gold. He takes my hand and kisses my knuckles. “I have been waiting a long time for you.”

    “But…” I stare up at him. “The painting-” he slips his finger over my lips. 

    “Do not worry, for now, I want to enjoy you while I can. I have waited enough.” He touches my cheek, and my heart starts to flutter. “Allow me the pleasure,” he whispers.

    Without a second thought, I tilt my chin up and close my eyes. His kiss is sweet and soft, growing in passion each second. He wraps me in his arms, securing me in a tight embrace. I cling to him, grasping to his coat and then touching the sides of his neck. I taste paint and charcoal on my tongue and yet, I do not mind it. 

    He pulls back, gazing into my eyes as I stare at him in awe. “I’ve never been kissed like that,” I whisper.

    “Then I will gladly do it often,” he kisses my cheek and neck. “But not so much as you become immune to it,” he winks at me, and my face grows warm. He takes me by the hand, leading me through his garden. 

    “Is this really a painting?” I ask him, breathless by all the beauty around us.

    “If you choose to see it that way,” he replies. He plucks a rose from the bush and places it in my hair. “For me, it is my world, but it has been an empty one until you arrived.”

    “Are there others?” I tilt my chin up to him, half expecting another kiss.

    He taps the tip of my nose. “There are, but they do not compare to you.” He puts his hand in mine again. “Are you more concerned with where you are than who you are with?” He smirks at me. “What must I do to turn your pretty head.” He slips his fingers under my chin. “Do you need more kisses?”

    Part of me wants to cry out yes. He is the best kisser I’ve ever had. I blush and smirk. “Kisses are nice. I am just so curious! One moment, I was staring at a beautiful painting, the next moment, I am inside it! You have to admit, it is all very strange!”

    “It is,” he nods. “But you will grow used to it with time, just as I did.”

    “That makes me even more curious!”I chuckle as we walk along. We come to an opening in the garden where there is a fountain. The water burbles out and flows, but it looks strange, and the movement of it is slow and jerky. It looks like brush strokes being placed onto a canvas one at a time. You reach out to touch it, and it feels like water.

    The royal smiles at you, watching your every move with a romantic glint in his eyes You smile at him and blush. “What is it?”

    He smiles and chuckles. “I finally get to see you up close. Forgive me for staring.” He takes hold of my hand. “I get to touch you. I finally have you by my side.”

    “You aren’t going to turn all creepy now, are you?” You tease. “Are you going to lock me away forever in this world?”

    “Not unless you wanted me to,” he kisses my palm and up my arm. He inches closer to me as his lips travel up. I shiver when he kisses my shoulder, tugging down the sleeve to kiss more skin. I whimper softly, turning my head to capture his lips. I taste charcoal again and pastels. I wrap my arms around him, keeping him locked in an embrace to prolong the kiss. 

    “I can feel your pulse on my tongue,” he whispers into my ear. “It makes me feel alive again,” he bites my neck, and I whimper, crying out softly.

    He pulls away and snarls. “Forgive me, I lost myself for a moment.”

    I touch my neck where he bit, and I shake my head. “It felt good,” I whisper. “I like your passion.”

    He smirks. “That lusty look in your eye,” he purrs as he brushes his knuckles against my cheek. “I want it all to myself.”

    The world around us shifts, and we go from the rosy hues of the garden into a dark room of violets and blues. The candlelight is white and shimmering. The flickering flames jerk and dance, once again looking like every changing brush strokes to my eyes. I hear music, soft and faint. He slips his hand around my waist and leads me in a dance. He spins me and swirls with me across the floor. My skirt billows out, looking like a cloud of pastel dust. I gaze deeply into his golden eyes, seeing a glow in them. He lifts me up, spinning me high into the air. I then see beyond us, outside the windows. Figures are crowding around the windows. They press against the glass with strange hands. They have no faces, only big smears of paint where the face should be.

    I scream, and he brings me down and holds me tightly in his arms. “Don’t look at them, my love.”

    “What are they?” I whimper. I heard them beyond the glass, their voices sound like someone beating on a tight canvas. 

    “Don’t worry about them,” he whispers to me. “Look at me,” he holds my face in his hands. “Don’t let them ruin this moment.”

    I sniffle and cling to him. Soon, the voices vanish, and we’re sitting in the middle of the floor. The light of the candles goes from white and violet to amber and gold like his eyes.  He holds my hands and kisses them.

    “You don’t belong here,” he whispers. He looks at me with the saddest expression. “I have no right to make you share my punishment.”

    “What do you mean?” I whisper. “Who are you? What is this place?”

    He sighs, kissing me softly. “You should leave here.”

    “No,” I gasp and grab hold of his arms. “Tell me your name! Tell me what this place is and how I can help you!”

    He smiles sadly at me. “My love,” he brushes his thumb across my lips. “My name is Maxence Emmanuelli.”

    “Maxence,” I whisper his name, and he shudders.

    “Say it again,” he murmurs close to my ear.

    I moan as he kisses my cheek and neck. “Maxence,” I feel his teeth on my neck again but in the next moment he pushes me away, and I fall through the candlelight. I scream and hit the floor of my studio. I’m in my pajamas again, and my hair is back to normal. My body is smeared with paint and pastels and charcoal, everywhere he touched me he left his mark. I look at the painting, seeing the colors have darkened and the figures behind him are more numerous than they have ever been. His face is turned away, and his golden eyes are downcast, his dark hair covers most of his expression.

    “Maxence!” I cry at the painting. “Maxence!” I shake the canvas, but I am not sure what I should expect. I sniffle filled with dread I could not help him. “What can I do?” I whimper. “How can I possibly help you? Why won’t you let me?” I stare at the painting, his face is still turned by his eye is glancing towards me. Those beautiful golden eyes had already enchanted me.

    “Maxence,” I whisper to him. I touch the painting and can feel his silky hair. “Don’t let go just yet,” I then kiss the canvas right as there is a knock at my door. 

    I answer it, and my mother stares at me. “My goodness,” she touches my cheek, wiping away charcoal. “Did you fall into your supplies?” She smirks.

    “Oh uh...kind of,” I gasp. 

    “You have a package,” she snickers at me. “I haven’t seen you look this way since your father fell asleep playing hide and seek.”

    I scoff and take the package from her. “Want a picture?” I ask her.

    “Kind of,” she snorts. “Get a shower, sweetie, before the paint stains.” She kisses my forehead and leaves with a loud laugh.

    I huff and go back inside. I see the package is from my friend who painted with wine and coffee. Inside there is a book about unexplained mysteries. That was strange, neither one of us cared for such things. I flipped through the book, and I stop dead in my tracks. It’s the painting of Maxence. The heading for the chapter is: “The Missing Prince.” 

    Maxence was the youngest son of a French nobleman, he was called the prince because of his beautiful appearance. He was also a talented artist and poet whose talents were sought out by nobles and royals alike. During his travels, it was rumored he had gotten the daughter of a very rich and powerful Nobel pregnant. The man had Maxence arrested, but all the while, Maxence argued his innocence. Maxence claimed to have never touched the girl and that she was the one who trapped and seduced him, drugging him and sleeping with him while he was unconscious. The story spread, some calling for Maxence to hang for his crimes, others defending his innocence and calling the girl a succubus. The daughter’s father wouldn’t relent, and soon Maxence's reputation was gone. Before his trial though, Maxence disappeared. The daughter and her father also seemed to lose interest around this time. They neither called for a search or seemed to care what happened to Maxence. In fact, there was no record of this family before or after. Only articles about them exist. Although, Maxence's family, in letters and diaries found at the time, claim that Maxence had been home during his disappearance. He had neither left his room or had any visitors, it was like he just vanished where he stood.

    I look back at the painting, seeing the faceless creatures have encroached closer to Maxence. I don’t know what this all means and I have no idea what to do, but it is helping me get closer. 

    I kneel before the painting. “The father and daughter did this, didn’t they?” You whisper to the painting. “Somehow, they sealed you away, right?” I sigh and shake my head. “There must be something I can do right? You don’t belong there either.”

    He had brought me into the painting, so I wondered if there was someway I could bring him out. He’s not looking at me again, so I’m not sure how to capture his attention. I kiss the painting. “Maxence, reach out, please.” 

    That evening as I am getting ready for bed, I hear a muffled cry. I turn, seeing Maxence is closer in the painting. His arms are stretched out, and he is being grabbed from behind by the strange faceless creatures. I run to him and stretch out my hands. My hands go through the painting and grab hold of his. I pull and watch as he comes out of the painting. The hands keep grabbing him, fighting me as I try to save him.

    “Don’t let go!” I tell him. “Maxence!”

    He grunts and cries out in pain as the hands continue to pull at him. “It’s ok! I understand if you can’t-”

    “No!” I snarl. I pull harder, ripping him away from the canvas. The hands released him, retreating back into the painting and we fell to the floor. Painting smears everywhere where he touches. We gasp, and pant and I start to laugh. Maxence chuckles and beams at me. When then embrace, holding each other tight. He nuzzles to my cheek, leaving the residue of his paint. 

    “I can’t believe you saved me,” he whispers.

    I look up at him, grinning from ear to ear. “Are you alright?” I brush his hair from my face and black charcoal stains my fingers. 

    “Yes,” he chuckles. “I’m sorry,” he gasps, noticing his touch is like wet paint. “I’m getting myself all over you.”

    I shake my head. “It’s alright. Really.” I stare at him, in awe of his beauty even now.

    “How did you know what to do?” He whispers to me.

    I show him the book I was sent and the chapter about him. “What did they do to you?” I ask him, holding his hand and he looks over the pages.

    He shakes his head. “She was a beautiful girl,” he tells me. “But I had no feelings for her. She took this as an offense.” His smile is sad. “Her father was a very strange man. He invited me to paint his daughter’s picture. He fed me and gave me wine but…” he looks distant and pained for a moment.

    I touch his back and lean close to him. “What happened?”

    “It was drugged,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “I don’t remember what happened, just fragments of it. I felt half dead, but I remember her riding me. Her skin was all milky white, and her eyes were red...and her father…” tears were streaming down his face. “I will never forget that fear,” he shudders.

    I wrap him up in my arms and hold him tight. “It’s ok, my love, it’s ok.”

    He clings to me, shivering and shaking. “I have never felt such pain and fear in my whole life. I couldn’t tell my family the truth,” he whimpers. “Who would believe me?”

    I touch his face, wiping away his tears. He looks at me with his beautiful golden eyes and smiles softly. “They came to me again, after all the horrible things they did to me, they still weren’t done with me.” He kisses me softly as if taking strength to finish his story. “No one knew they were there and I had no time to call for help. The next thing I know, those faceless creatures have their hands on me.” He sniffles against and lays his head on my shoulder.

    I hold him tight, running my fingers through his hair. 

    “It wasn’t until I saw you that I felt hope,” he whispers. “You were small and lovely, such a cute little girl.” He lifts his head and touches my cheek. “Every time you snuck into this place, I saw you. I watched you grow, and I fell in love with the woman.” He looks at me and kisses me, moaning softly as my lips part for him. “For a spell, I feared I would never see you again. I was ready to let the faceless ones take me and finish me.” he smiles. “And then, when I was the deepest in my hopelessness, you were there.”

    I grin at him. “Did you intend to keep me in that painting forever?”

    “I thought about it,” he laughs. “But then I realized, keeping you would be the same as what the daughter and father did to me.” He shakes his head. “You didn’t deserve the torture I had been through. Fearing daily for my life, never knowing when the two of them could show their faces again.” He looks back at me, tears still falling down his cheeks. They wash away the paint and pastel, showing soft, supple skin. “You make me feel safe.”

    I smile up at him, kissing him lovingly. “You scared me,” I whisper. “You made me love you, and then you pushed me away.”

    He chuckles. “Forgive me, I won’t do it again.”

    I stand up and take his hand. “Come with me.” I lead him to the bathroom, and I turn the shower on. I strip out of my clothes, and I help him remove the many layers he is wearing. They fall to the floor, splashing like wet paint. I then pull him into the shower with me. Color runs off his body, swirling and mixing in the drain. I kiss him, tasting paint and charcoal for the last time. His body is warm and soft. He feels strong and solid. I scrub him, feeling the paint and pastel wash away to reveal his beautiful body.

    “You skin is so soft,” he whispers to me as he touches me.

    I giggle, kissing his chest. “So is yours,” I tell him.

    He blushes and bites his lip. “I like yours better. It’s been so long,” he whispers. He brushes my wet hair away from my cheek. “Real skin, real warmth.” He runs his strong hands over me. “And from the creature I love.”

    I grin at him, rubbing the sponge to his chest. “Was there someone you loved back then?” I look up at him. “What was she like?”

    He smiles at me. “Just like you,” he tilts his head. “Bright and sunny, talented too. She was a better painter than I and she never ever let me forget that.” He cups my cheeks in his palms. “I never got to tell her goodbye.” He steps out of the shower and reaches into his clothes which have begun to melt away. He pulls from them something shiny. He steps back into the shower, washing off the beautiful ring. He then slips it onto my finger, and I gape at the giant diamond that is now weighing my hand down. 

    “Holy shit,” I gasp.

    He laughs. “You said that to me before.” He kisses my cheek. “You never got to see the ring I promised you before.”

    I stare up at him in awe.

    “But now that we’re together again, I hope that you like my design.” he kisses my palm. “It suits your beautiful hands.”

    “I don’t remember that,” I tell him. “Maybe one day I will.”  I put my hand around the nape of his neck and pull him down. “Kiss me, maybe it’ll come back to me.”

    He chuckles. “I don’t mind doing it all over,” he murmurs against my cheek. “It is worth it.” He kisses me and my knees go weak. I nearly fall in the shower, but he catches me and holds me fast against his chest.

    “Perhaps we should kiss on less slippery ground,” he chuckles. He steps out of the shower and hands me a towel. 

    I get dressed and quickly go to the store to buy him some clothes. When I come back, I find him asleep in my bed, curled up and hugging my pillow. I smirk, setting down my shopping bag and joining him. He wakes up and stretches his arms out to hold me.

    “I haven’t slept in so long,” he murmurs dreamily. He kisses the top of my head and snuggles to my hair. 

    “In all that time?” I ask, pulling the blanket up around him, the Art Locker is cold after all.

    He nods, and his eyes open slowly, gazing at me. “This isn’t the dream is it?” He asks. “Please tell me you’re real.”

    I smile at him and place my palm over his heart. The diamond ring he gave me glitters brilliantly. “Are you real?” I ask him.

    He grins and kisses me. “I sure hope so, my love. The more real I am, the longer I will love you.”

    I giggle and snuggle to his chest. His body is so warm, and he smells so good from the shower. I notice he stills leaves a residue behind. There are smears of charcoal and pastel on the sheets, and his tongue leaves red paint on my lips and neck. I have no complaints about that, in fact, I rather like that he can still leave his mark on me. He was a painting for so long, it makes sense he would still have side effects from the ordeal. I can always call him my living painting, my French prince come to life.

    He smiles at me. “I just realized I’m very naked and in bed with a beautiful woman.” He tugs my sleeve down, kissing my bare shoulder. “What would people think if they saw us?”

    “They’d think we’re a couple,” I giggle. “I bought you some clothes, by the way. You don’t have to stay naked.”

    “Ddi you not hear me?” he grins. “I am naked and in bed with a beautiful woman. Why would I ever want to wear clothes again?”

    I laugh and pull him in for another kiss. “I love you, Maxence,” I whisper.

    He nods. “I love you too, Haydee.”