The Butcher of the Bay Part II - J. Bree Page 0,37

but me? I need to paint it out.

I may burn this canvas when I'm done.

I start to squeeze out oils onto my palette, mixing and fussing with them until the colors are right. I don't know if I take hours or minutes but it feels as though I'm putting it off. Playing with this instead of the real work that needs to be done.

Finally, I grab a pencil and start to sketch the outlines out. I start on Javier, one of Alcatron’s men. He'd visited me only twice, both times bragging that he'd won me in a bet. He'd been rough with me, pinching and slapping, but he was the least painful and the least sadistic of the men.

Once the outlines are good enough I take a break, drinking some water with shaking hands. I check the clock and my phone but there’s still hours until mon Monstre is due home. I could continue with it. I eat a little bit of bread and cheese, staring at the pencil lines like maybe they will fill in and the man himself will step out of the painting. Can I handle the oils being added? Am I strong enough?

Maybe I’m not, but I want to be.

I step back up to the canvas with a deep breath and dip my brush into the first color. I stare at it for too long but as soon as I lift it, it’s as though my inner switches off and the memory takes over me. I’m not scared but I feel possessed.

I add the paint, layer after layer. Building the textures and the colors until the man staring back at me could jump off of the canvas and attack me all over again with how perfect the likeness is. I try not to think about him, to just paint what I see in my mind but it's impossible. I have to think about every single touch, every insult, every degradation. I have to think of it all to get him out and on the canvas.

I don't notice the passing of time. It's only when I'm finished and look away from my work, blinking owlishly and attempting to remember where I am, that I find Illi on the couch watching me.

He's already showered for the night, the sweatpants low on his hips and the tattoos on his chest splayed out proudly even as he scowls over at me. No, not at me. At my work.

"Is that Alcatron?" He says, his voice dark and laced with violence.

I shake my head. "It's Javier. One of the other men."

He nods and rubs his chin, the frown still deep over his eyes. "Can you tell me about him? Tell me everything the painting doesn't. I need to know exactly what he was responsible for."

I wipe my hands off on the cleaning rag and then join him on the couch. "I can talk about it. Are you sure you want to hear it though?"

His jaw tightens and he gives me a curt nod. "I need to know he's dying the way his crimes deserve him to."

I take his hand gently in mine, threading our fingers together and rubbing the scars on his knuckle with my thumb.

Then I take a deep breath and tell him everything.

Every last second of my time with Alcatron.

When I’m done he kisses me deep and possessively, carrying me to bed even though I’m covered in paints. He doesn’t care about the mess, only that I’m here with him and pouring my trauma out for him to bear witness to.

I wake the next morning lighter.

Like purging him from my soul actually lessened the load he was weighing me down with. The smile on my lips is a relief. I’m not broken, I’m not what they did to me. I can heal and I can love again. I can paint out the horror and tell everything to that man who loves me and nothing about our relationship is broken by it. I can make love and take every inch of pleasure and pain from my beloved and enjoy it fully.

I might not be whole, but someday I might be.

My sleep is still not back to being fully restful, the demons still coming out to play with me at night. Mon Monstre is far too attuned to me, so there’s no chance of me sneaking out of bed to leave him alone to rest by himself. Instead he holds me, tells me stories of his life before we met and his