Something of a Kind - By Miranda Wheeler Page 0,64

that they had been organized chronologically and group clustered by colors. From what he could tell, only one had been completed in the past year. It held his attention, evoking something he couldn't seem to name.

The woman was obviously sick, emaciated and naked, tangled head-to-toe in dark hair. Curled in fetal position, she barely fit within the vintage bird cage. Hung by chains attached to a dipping branch of a bleeding birch, she was suspended above a clone of Aly. The replica was covered in cuts and vines, muscles taut in an attempt to pull herself from a bubbling tar pit.

At a glance, it was disturbing. In hues of jaundice, the feeling reminded Noah of having a depressing song stuck in his head. Trying to somehow grasp whatever metaphor she was going for, he backed away, dropping into an over-fluffed chair. Leaning back, his elbow nudged her bedside table. With a clatter, a framed photograph fell to the ground. As he lifted it, he noticed the crack – a small line, cutting a corner. Face flushed with embarrassment, he found himself staring behind the glass.

Their smiles matched, both eyes excited – though the contrast of green and blue irises, one sunken and bloodshot, was significant. They both seemed cheerful, dressed for frigid weather, but it was obvious her mother's health had gotten worse since the picture from her phone was taken. It wasn’t difficult to recognize the caged woman from the painting.

Noah hadn’t realized a blow -drier was going until it grew quiet. A heartbeat later, a door clicked and slammed as Aly exited the bathroom. Showered and dressed, he was sure she’d broken a record. It was ten times faster than his sister could even dream of.

His gaze returned to the wall, glancing between Aly and the painting. It was almost difficult to imagine her having created something so dark. He wasn't sure she had any in her. As she leaned into his side, Noah blurted, “Feel like translating?”

Aly shrugged. “It belongs to the viewer.”

Chewing his cheek, he inquired, “Is that so?”

“I must have taken it down and put it back up a hundred times,” she admitted. When he raised a brow expectantly, she continued, “I was… unsure. It felt artistically vulgar. Something weird happened with my stuff the first day I got here, and I wasn’t really clear on who was coming in and out. I didn’t know if it should be placed for anyone to see.”

“It’s… intense.” Palms up, his hands were open, seeking the words he didn’t have.

She smiled to herself, fingertips trailing the edge of the canvas. “Thanks… I guess.”

“This is the only thing you've painted all year?”

“I haven’t really built up the courage since my mom got sick again. It sounds stupid, but that was our thing. The way she talked about them… like she was proud and horrified at the same time. It was the strangest situation.” She spoke with absence, quietly laughing at memories she didn’t offer to share. Balancing without struggle to slide on a pair of boots, she retrieved a coat from the closet, adding, “I sketched the lake back home a lot, since I knew I was moving. A few things that struck me about Ashland ended up in a notebook somewhere.”

"That's a start, right?"

“Sure. What have you got there?” she asked, nodding towards his fists with a smile. Noah grimaced with guilt.

He apologized, placing it in her hands. “I am so sorry. I promise I’ll replace it. I know it cracked, but I don’t think the picture was scratched.”

Aly bit her lip, accepting the frame – porcelain, etched with butterflies – with reluctance. Shaking her head, she waved off another apology. “You know what? It’s not a problem.”

He frowned. “Aly-”

“Noah. I said it was fine.” She put a hands on his shoulder, looking up into his eyes. “This was broken long before it cracked. Don’t even worry about it.”

She listened for a response. Noah nodded. Tucking it in a drawer, Aly stretched her arms above her head. Walking to the window, she stood against a surreal background. The black curtains against the largest wall were parted, revealing the haze of an Alaskan sunrise.

She draped a bag across her torso and lifted a camera from its depths, the strap wound around her wrist. Moving to her side, Noah stared at the equipment before meeting her eyes.

For the last time, Alyson asked, “Are you sure you are willing to do this?”

He knew his father would have him murdered. It was