CONTENT WARNING: Involves physical and emotional abuse.
The Last Painting
(a flash fiction story by Maggie Slater)
Victoria bit back a groan of agony as she eased herself from the velvet stool on which she’d posed for nearly two hours. Nicolas, hair wild, a smudge of cadmium yellow across his brow, continued attacking the canvas. His brushstrokes fell like thwacks of a knife on a butcher block.
Slipping on her robe, Victoria stepped up to the one open window and sucked in a breath of fresher air. The stench of turpentine was making her lightheaded. She stole a glance at Nicolas, working feverishly with wide, intent eyes. The polluted yellow of the evening sky over the old mill buildings cast a wane pallor over him that made her stomach turn.
She’d promised Ronnie that she’d finally tell Nicolas that she was through. She had a thousand reasons: the poses he demanded were becoming too challenging; the hours too long. His intensity and angry outbursts frightened her. What was more, she was engaged now, and Ronnie disliked the idea of her posing nude for Nicolas’ hungry eyes.
But she fully intended to tell him how much she’d appreciated this opportunity, that it had been a pleasure these last few years. After all, she owed him so much. He’d introduced her—via numerous portraits displayed in galleries throughout the city—to a world that had always been out of reach for her. Parties, and galas, and celebrities—she walked among the elite, now. A long way to come for a girl who used to serve lattes to those very same people. In fact, it was Nicolas’ fierce brushstrokes that had brought her and Ronald together in the first place, meeting at one of the artist’s wildly popular shows.
With a cry of anguish, Nicolas flung his brushes to the plank floor and stumbled back, gripping his shoulders.
“Look! Just look at it!” he howled, his face drawn in horror.
The canvas bore her image, as always, but not as she was. Nicolas had painted her bruised and battered, bleeding from her mouth and brow, fingers broken at horrible angles. Her stomach lurched with disgust.
“What is this?” She couldn’t tear her gaze from the image.
Nicolas shook his head and slumped into a crouch, gripping his skull. “You can’t go!” he cried. “You can’t! I need you too much.”
A chill swept through her, cutting right down to her heart. She backed away from him as he whimpered and rocked on his heels. He didn’t look up as she quietly gathered her clothes. But when she took a step towards the door, he jerked up and screamed, “No! Victoria, no! I won’t let you go!”
The cry electrified her and she bolted for the door. He came after her, a pattering scramble as if he ran on all fours chased her, his cry rising into a screech of desperation. She careened through the door, down the hall, and leapt for the stairs. She pitched forward as the echo of his hands on the metal railings clanged behind her, but managed to swing herself down the few remaining steps and keep her feet, slamming out the fire escape door at the bottom.
She stumbled over pocked asphalt, toes snagged by verdant patches of weeds, making for the road. Waiting there, ahead of schedule, she saw Ronnie leaning on the hood of his car, and she almost sobbed with relief. Glancing back, she expected to see Nicolas tearing after her, but the fire escape door remained closed.
She threw herself into Ronnie’s arms, and sobbed against his chest. His grasp tightened around her briefly, and then he pushed her out at arm’s length, frowning.
“I thought you said you weren’t going to pose nude for him anymore.” His gaze swept over the robe, the tumble of clothes she’d dropped at her feet.
The disapproval in his voice made her stomach sink, recalling the last time she’d disappointed Ronnie, embarrassed him in front of his rich friends for not wearing the right outfit to an important dinner. Her wrist ached with the memory of that night, despite his apologies afterwards.
“He insisted…and it was the last time, since I was quitting, so-”
“So? So? I don’t want my fiancée portrayed like a whore for the whole world to see. It’s disgusting!” His grip on her shoulder synched down and she winced. His glare seered into her, teeth bared.
Victoria thought again of the painting, the last one, in which she was most certainly dead, and Nicolas’ wild distraction, his pleading. Perhaps it hadn’t been a threat for her to stay with him. Perhaps this was what he’d been envisioning.
Ronnie jerked her arm and shoved her towards the car. She’d never seen him quite like this before, so serious, crackling with anger. She looked back up at the mills, towards Nicolas’ window, and saw his pale face like a ghost pressed against the glass, watching sorrowfully.