One month later
Different shades of black and gray, and nothing else. I take some of the yellow paint on my brush and try adding a few strokes over the dark shapes on my canvas, but it only ends up smeared with the previous layer of black. It kind of reflects my state of mind the last few weeks. Shades of black, and every single attempt to add a little bit of color ends up as a fluke.
I leave the canvas to dry and go to the bathroom. The previous layers should dry by tomorrow evening, and I’ll try again. I wonder when I’ll be able to process anything other than shades of gray. It certainly won’t be tomorrow.
Three tubes of hair dye lay scattered next to the sink. I already tried purple, and it lasted for two weeks before it washed out. How fitting. I reach for the second tube. Maybe the blue will last longer.
It takes me two hours to finish with my hair and take a shower, and it’s almost six a.m. when I finally go into my bedroom. The sun already started rising, so I pull the heavy drapes over the window and climb into bed. I still can’t sleep during the night, so I switched and started going to bed early in the morning and working through the night. The moment I would close my eyes I’d see Roman turning the knife again, his hands covered in blood. That scene was much easier to deal with during the day.
That phase passed after a month, and now the only thing I see in my dreams is Roman. Unfortunately, nothing makes it easier to deal with this new vision, day or night. Sometimes, when I find it especially hard to sleep, I close my eyes and pretend that he’s next to me.
Maybe I should leave, pack a bag and catch the first train to wherever, switch at a random point, until I’m somewhere far away. I could find a job on a farm or something—cleaning horse shit, and paint in my free time. Or I could start using horse shit instead of paint. Start a new artistic wave. Yeah, I’ll consider that.
Roman
Maxim enters my kitchen and stands by the island, his hands clasped behind his back. He watches the doc work on my arm.
“Italians rigged one of our warehouses,” he says.
“The damage?”
“Just the building, nothing that can’t be repaired.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“It was one of the empty warehouses, so there wasn’t any security detail allocated there.”
Leave it to the Italians to burn an empty warehouse. Idiots. “Make sure you double the men on the ones holding product.”
“Already done.”
I thank the doc, stand up, and go toward the window overlooking the patio. “What has she been doing?”
“She changed her hair again. It’s blue now.”
“Any . . . men?”
“No one, as far as we could see.”
“When a man enters the picture, and it will happen eventually, make sure I never find out, Maxim.”
