Page 10 of It Hurts Me

“What’s downstairs?” He noticed the stairs that led to the basement.

“Oh.” It was an unusual collection of paintings, a section I didn’t bother to show most people because they are so disturbing. “It’s hard to describe. They don’t really fit into any category. They’re sinister, dark, disturbing…” I wasn’t even sure why we kept them.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m all of those things. Lead the way.”

I looked into his face, seeing a handsome man with dark hair and eyes, but none of the other things he claimed. His words always had a bite, but he’d still allowed himself to be soaked to the bone so he could help me leave whatever danger he’d enigmatically warned me about.

“Sure.” I went down the stairs and flicked on the art lights. We didn’t bother to turn them on because so few people were interested in this collection. “Most of these paintings are hundreds of years old. The artists are lesser known. They depict some of the crueler things in society, the plague, demons, torture…things of that nature.”

He stepped into the room and looked at the first painting. He didn’t just look at it, but he stared without a hint of uncertainty, facing the horror head on. It was a demonic creature in a darkly lit room, its grotesque features impossible to describe. It occupied a cabin in the woods…and appeared to eat the corpse of a faceless human as it hung upside down.

“It’s a changeling,” I explained. “It’s a supernatural being who replaces someone who’s been taken by the devil or a demon or a monster. It resembles a human when it’s been spotted and shows its true form in solitude.”

He continued to stare at it.

I expected him to reject these paintings like he had all the others, even though he seemed just as interested in their evocativeness.

“I want this one.”

I almost did a double take as I looked at the side of his face. It wasn’t my place to judge another’s opinion about art, but I’d never had anyone ever want these paintings on their wall, never heard of anyone wanting to look at them more than once.

He stepped away and looked at the next one, dark monsters creeping out of the forest and surrounding a lone traveler by a campfire. A sword lay on the ground near the campfire, but the man didn’t reach for it, like he knew there was no escape. “And this one.”

I wrote it down and kept my judgment to myself.

He looked at a few others and wanted them too. But then he came back to the changeling and continued his stare again, because the first pass hadn’t been long enough.

“What do you like about this one?”

His arms were crossed over his chest as he stared, his head cocked slightly. “Do you ever feel that way?”

“What way?” I asked quietly.

“Like you died a long time ago, and now there’s this other version of you that lingers…a changeling.” His stare lasted a few seconds longer before he turned to look at me directly, gazing at me with the same interest he showed the painting.

I felt an invisible spotlight on my face. Felt like another painting he wanted on his wall. I swallowed, the intensity of his stare like fire from the surface of the sun.

“Tell me your name.”

For a brief moment, I forgot what it was. “Astrid.”

He continued his stare.

“Yours?” I had his last name, but not his first.

“Theo.”

My eyes dropped to his hand, seeing the enormous rock on his finger, a piece of jewelry that was probably worth more than all the paintings in this gallery. It was so striking and potent, there was no way people didn’t notice it—and that was the way he wanted it. “That’s an interesting ring.”

He didn’t look down at his left hand. Didn’t seem to care about the comment I made or feel pressured to address the questions I never asked.

“I’ll deliver your paintings and arrange for them to be hung on your wall.” The energy that emitted from him was just as substantial as the energy from all these paintings, their ability to evoke a range of emotions with just the color of their paints. “I can probably get this done tomorrow?—”

“Let’s have dinner.” He spoke over me like he hadn’t been listening to a word I said, just watched my lips move while nothing came out. “I know a good place around the corner.”

“Um…” He caught me off guard, and I wasn’t sure if that invitation was personal or business. Whether it was business or not, he’d selected his paintings, so there was no reason for us to continue a conversation. But I wanted to say yes…and that made me writhe in both disappointment and gut-wrenching guilt. “I’m married.”

His expression didn’t change, so he either had a great poker face or he really felt no disappointment at my rejection. “You don’t wear a wedding ring.”