Ivelle

The red on the canvas looks disturbingly like blood. I keep dragging the brush over it, harder and harder, almost tearing through, but I don't care.

I need to calm myself somehow, and painting is the only way I know how. The palette in my other hand is a chaotic mess of colors. The painting also no longer resembles what I set out to create. It's pure anxiety and disorder splashed across in desperate strokes.

This has never happened before. Painting has always brought me calm, no matter how chaotic my mind felt.

Today, however, is different. Despite my best efforts, I am unable to concentrate. I thought, as always, that sitting here and letting the brush guide me would bring some peace.

But not this time.

I'm filled with stress, a persistent feeling that something horrible is going to happen. Even though I practically expect horrible things to come by now, this feels more intense than just a lousy vibe. Because the kind of misfortune I attract isn't just ordinary bad luck. It's something darker, almost like a curse. And someone devious like me will know when a bad event is about to happen.

"Why can't I shake this off?" I mutter to myself, the brush trembling in my hand.

But there are no responses in the room's quietness. The canvas looks back at me, mocking me, telling me it is aware of the confusion going through my head.

 "Maybe I should just walk away," I say, shaking my head. "But I can't. I need to paint. It's the only thing that helps."

What if it doesn't this time? Let go

A voice inside me whispers ,quiet yet unmistakably mine, only softer. It's the same voice that always rises when my mind feels overrun, binding me in invisible chains, trapping me in hesitation. 

It distorts my intents till I hardly recognise myself, stopping me from acting in accordance with my moral convictions and forces me to do things that I would never do on my own, like hurting someone I love or snapping when all I want is calm.

Turning that anguish inward and destroying myself to protect those around me is sometimes the only way to avoid hurting them.I grit my teeth, refusing to acknowledge it. "No. I just have to push through."

I repeatedly spatter the canvas with my brush after dipping it into a bright red colour. The clumsy repetition is all I have. No plan, no direction. Being caught in this cycle with no real goal makes me feel like I'm wasting paint.

"Just concentrate, okay!" I yell. My annoyance is leaking forth. I feel the burden of a strange thing pushing down on me as I glance down at my quivering, paint-stained hands. It's creeping up again. Panic. 

I feel even more alone because of how dark the room is and how the shadows move across the walls. The sky is slowly being overtaken by dense, black clouds that are rolling in from outside. Everything is in a muted, grey stillness as the final vestiges of light and warmth vanish. Somehow, the air is starting to feel chilly in the room, as though it is preparing for a heavy downpour.

There are canvases all throughout this room, which is actually my art studio. Each canvas tells a story, a chapter of my life I've chosen to share with only a select few. I've never let anyone into this space, except Zabel and Theon.

Not even my brothers or my father have stepped foot in here. I also never expected them to come, to appreciate the pieces scattered around this room. I've always worried that they won't like my art. I picture their eyes being clouded by skepticism and disappointment since our bond has always been strained.

I suddenly feel the need to grab a broader brush, and swish it across the canvas, leaving thick, erratic lines. My hand trembles as I try to steady the brush. "Why is this so hard?"

A sharp tap on the door startles me, and I nearly drop the palette. "Hey! Are you in there?" a familiar voice calls out, muffled through the door.

It's Zabel. She doesn't wait for my answer, of course. The door swings open, and she steps inside, her gaze falling instantly on the mess of my room and then on me.

She comes over to stand in front of me. Her beautiful brown hair sways slightly with each stride. She tucks them behind her ear out of habit as a few strands fall across her face. "Oh my God, look at you," she says, half in shock, half in that usual tone of hers, equal parts critique and concern. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to paint of course." I mumble, turning back to the canvas, but I know she's not buying it.

"Trying to paint?" She repeats. "You look like you're in a wrestling match with that poor thing. What's going on?" She folds her arms and is leaning against a nearby table, which has paint drips all over it. The way she looks is one of both interest and worry.

I press my lips together, struggling to find the words. "I don't know. I don't feel well."

"Since when does painting not help? You always say it's your escape."

"I know, but today..." I trail off, staring at the streaks of color that make no sense anymore. "Today, it's like it's not enough. Nothing is."

"Look," she begins, choosing her words carefully, "it's okay if it's not enough today. You don't always have to force it, you know?" Zabel wanders around the space. She looks at the pieces of art that she has seen over and over but not once questioned my creations, which is different from my anxieties about other people's opinions.

Zabel always finds each piece to be significant and breathtaking, and she never holds back when expressing her admiration for them.

I shake my head, frustrated. "But painting has always been my way out. And now I can't even get that right."

"Maybe your mind's telling you it's time to stop wrestling with yourself and actually face what's going on."I meet her gaze, surprised. Zabel's usually all about quick fixes and brushing things off, not talking them through. Now she's serious, almost determined. Strange. 

"It's just a thought," she adds, shrugging slightly, though I can tell she's not as casual as she sounds. "You need something more than just paint and a canvas. You need me." She flashes a sheepish smile and winks at me. Always the fool, I think, yet somehow, it's exactly what I need right now. "Fine," I say softly. "Stay."

She nods, pulling a chair beside me and, in typical Zabel fashion, grabs a spare brush. "I'll just ruin your masterpiece a little," she jokes. "Alright," I tease, trying to match her lightheartedness. "Just don't get too carried away."

"Me? Never!" she laughs, dipping her brush into the paint. "I'm just here to sprinkle a little chaos on your... chaos." As she begins to apply her strokes, the colors blend in unexpected ways. "See? It's already better," she says, glancing at me. "Now it looks like a proper mess instead of just your meltdown."

"Yeah, a masterpiece of chaos. Just what I was going for."

"Exactly!" Zabel beams. "And when we're done, we can just hang it up and call it 'Therapy in Red' or something equally pretentious."

I roll my eyes but can't suppress the smile creeping onto my face. "Only you would come up with that. But I like it." I give Zabel complete control over the painting, admiring the unfettered enthusiasm with which her brush moves across the canvas.

We both are two souls so different from one another. But in some way, this odd connection has grown and united our differences to create a pleasant experience.

She came into my life like a windstorm—a little girl standing tall and proud next to her brother and father, with the same confidence she has now. Her charming smile lit up her beautiful green eyes. I knew right away she was bound to be trouble. A sweet, irresistible kind of trouble.

My eyes return to the window as I hear a thunderclap in the distance. The storm has finally come, wild and ferocious, outside. Deep shadows are cast over everything as dark clouds churn and whirl across the sky. Rain starts tapping softly against the glass, then more forcefully, until the room comes alive with a constant, repetitive drumming. In the distance, flashes of lightning illuminate the storm in sharp, short bursts.

Even the sky can let everything out, shedding its tears freely in the rain, while here I am, stuck inside myself, with nothing to let go of. I feel like I have to keep my composure even if the world could collapse.

Zabel tilts her head, watching me with a curious smile. "Alright," she says softly, "what's going on in that head of yours, staring out the window like that?"I glance back at her briefly, shrugging. "Nothing."

She narrows her eyes, giving me that skeptical look she always wears when she is certain I'm not being honest. She knows me too well and there's no hiding my thoughts from her. "You can't fool me, you know," she says, crossing her arms. "Something's up, so spill."

I mimic her posture by crossing my arms. " You tell me Zabel why you're here today." I try to match her typical confidence by raising an eyebrow. "Did you come and admire my mess? Or are you also thinking about something?"

She probably thinks I'm too clueless to notice that she canceled plans with that guy who's been obsessing over her, just to come here and check on Viktor.

Her pose changes as she pretends to be innocent and turns her head. "So I can't even visit my best friend now?" She asks in a light-hearted yet mockingly disappointed tone. "Has this been our situation?"

"Visit me or Viktor?" I say, rolling my eyes. "It's a tough choice, isn't it?"

"Oh, come on!" she replies, waving her hand dismissively. "You know it's you I came to see. Viktor just happened to be here. But really, I'd pick you any day." As she speaks, Zabel moves closer to the canvas. Her fingers brush against the vibrant colors. "You know, I think you need more blue," she says, picking up a brush and dipping it into a rich azure.

You can't fool me on this one, Zabel. I know how you feel about that arrogant ass.

I glance away, gritting my teeth. Damn Viktor. Just the thought of you makes my mood darken all over again.

 Although I dislike it, I understanding that I have no influence over Zabel's emotions. Viktor is not the type of guy she can be herself with. Viktor will never be good enough for her. But I can't force my opinion on her.

Sometimes I don't even understand what she sees in him. Tall, sure, with that imposing, masculine build and a face that's admittedly striking, almost angelic. But his personality? Cold and trashy. There's nothing likable beyond his looks, and even Zabel knows it. But somehow, she chooses to ignore all of that. 

As I look at her again I wonder if she is aware of the type of person she is becoming attracted to. She's always been able to see right through people, but when she's around him, it feels like something I can't explain has partially blinded her.

Perhaps it's the excitement, or perhaps she's attracted to the mystery and potential danger he carries.

 Even so, it's annoying.

I want her to view him the same way I do, and to realise that he doesn't make her feel her best self. She appears cautious and guarded around him, unlike the laid-back Zabel I know. 

Yet, every time I think about saying something, I stop myself.

How can I judge what her heart decides?

She smiles at me as she takes a step back with her hands on her hips. "There! It's done." She sings, "Look how lovely I made it!" with pride in her eyes.

Tsk. I doubt she'll ever admit her feelings for him unless I press her on it—really make her confront it.

I sigh and turn my gaze back to the canvas, only to feel my jaw drop. I forgot that she was adding her own "touches" to my artwork because I was too distracted.

It's a total disaster with every shade imaginable. She has somehow turned it into an even greater failure than I did.

The room echoes with the soft, light-hearted sound of her laughter. She moves closer to examine her tangled creation and then asks, "What do you think? It's a manifestation of liberty! I reasoned, Why can't I let loose if you can?" 

I burst out laughing, unable to hold it back anymore. That was exactly her plan all along, wasn't it? Only She could decide that the best way to fix my sour mood was to turn my painting—my one attempt at calming down—into an explosion of color mess. And she did it all with that innocent look, as if she were crafting a masterpiece instead of splattering paint like a wild child.

"You're welcome," Zabel says, dropping into an exaggerated bow, one arm sweeping dramatically to the side. She lowers herself so far, I half-expect her to tip over. The look on her face is so smug, so absurdly proud of her "art therapy" that I can't help but snort.

"Oh, please," I manage between laughs, "you look like a court jester trying to impress the king."

She straightens up, hands on her hips, and raises an eyebrow. "A jester?" she scoffs, feigning offense. "Excuse me, but that's the work of a genius." She gestures grandly at the canvas, which now looks like a paint store exploded on it. 

"A genius?" I chuckle, wiping a tear from my eye. "Zabel, it looks like you were finger-painting blindfolded." 

She lets out a cry and clutches her chest as though hurt. She lashes out, "How dare you insult my creative process!" before striking a theatrical pose, pretending she were an artist misunderstood in her own day.

I'm laughing so hard now that my sides hurt. Her cheeky smile, which says that she is aware of her actions but would never make a big deal out of them, draws my attention. 

"See?" she says with a wink. "Art therapy at its finest. You should hire me, princess."

I chuckle, shaking my head. "Maybe you're onto something."