She lay on the floor. She was an object of perfection. Nothing like the fidgeting wreck Eric handled the last week. She was transformed in this moment; Eric intended to capture the scene.
Eric met the young women a week ago, after she answered his “Live model needed” ad, published in the White City Reporter, a local newspaper. A light knock on his studio door came after two weeks of an unanswered ad. She was tall and slender with flowing blonde hair and downturned eyes. She spoke to the floor as she inquired about the job. Her facial features were symmetrical and her body was proportionate, but she lacked posture or elegance. She was nervous and shifted on her feet. Eric was close to turning her away, until she looked up into his eyes. Her eyes held the answer to his decision. There was mystery in them, a secret they held and he wanted to know what they were protecting.
Eric spoke with an elegance of times past and let his touch linger on her arm a moment too long, after he escorted her into the room. He held her gaze and smiled wide as he told her, “You are Mona Lisa reincarnate. You shall be the most splendid portrait I shall ever have painted.” He saw her shoulders relax and the green in her eyes beam a little brighter. He had won her.
A week of strenuous trial and error occurred. Regardless of the lighting, wardrobe, or props Eric could conjure, his muse eluded him and he blamed the girl. He posed her so the natural light brushed her golden strands of hair. Yet she sat hunched. He directed her facial expressions. Still a constant look of boredom plagued her eyes. Eric corrected over and over again, trying to unlock the enigma that he saw in their first encounter. His frustration peaked and the day ended in shouts and curses from Eric. He paid the girl for her time and said, “We’ll start anew tomorrow.”
Today would be no different. He vowed that, at the first sign of irritation, he would dismiss the girl indefinitely, and offer his condolences to the art gallery that commissioned his work and had requested a new piece by the following week.
It started like all the others- with sighs and scowls. However, once situated on her side, her body angled toward Eric, she was a vision of passion and aggression. He had not directed the moment and in his lack of control she became mystifying. She wore the same scared look that first captured his attention.
Eric hurried to his easel. He sketched with a fervent he’d never known. The scene was a flawless masterpiece. He burned with a desperate need to capture the quintessence of it.
He started at her well manicured feet, each toe a marvelous curl. He sketched the gentle curves of her calf as one leg lie atop the other. Then, he worked up her slender hips. His motions became more eager with each stroke of the brush. “This paragon won’t last,” he whispered to himself. He propelled his hand faster across the canvas; afraid she would stiffen and ruin yet another work in progress.
Eric inched his way across her waist and noticed how the gown clung to her body, edifying the muscular physique beneath. He noted the gentle way her arm fell over her side, the tips of her fingers lightly grazing her navel. It made him anxious and rattled.
She became something like water to him- a necessity of life, and his heart pounded as he drank in her surrender.
He worked tirelessly, never a pause in his motions, doing his best to complete the intricate beading in the gown. He filled in the shadows that cushioned every bend in her body and the light crimson halo that encircled her head.
The blue sky gradually turned to a soft purple as the day made way for night. Eric reached her shoulders by the time the tendons in his hand cramped and he was forced to pause. He leaned back, inspecting his fine work. He managed to preserve the splendor before him, save her face. He saved her perfect gaze for last. He kissed his pointer and index finger, and gently pressed them against the canvas. He was enthralled with his own work, and sat admiring it for some time.
“Now for your eyes,” he whispered, and a feeling surged through him more sensual than any intimacy he had ever known. “Your eyes will shine like sacred emerald jewels,” he said as he looked over the sketch one last time.
He picked up the brush and looked back at his muse only to find his passion tempered. He was by her side in one swift movement. He knelt down and grabbed her face, forcing her eye to eye with him. He looked into her pallor stare. The color drained from her eyes and a fog settled in its place. He waited too long. Rigor set in, and the magic was ruined. Appalled, he let her go and the body hit the concrete floor with a loud crack.
Eric lifted his hands to his face in despair. “What have I done?! You awful wretch- I had no choice! You wouldn’t give me what I wanted, what I needed.”
He looked down at the body and noted the deep purple bruises, the places where his hands squeezed the life from her. She wore the bruises well, like a chain of luxe diamonds around the curve of her neck. Her eyes, however, were now a repulsive white.
Being so close to the corpse, he could now smell the stench of feces and urine. He stepped over her crumpled body and moved to the window. He drew back the curtain and stared out at the last reaming light of day.
In her death, she gave him the greatest gift- a work to last the ages. It was a gift her life could never have offered. But, like a cruel joke, she stole its worth in the last moments.
A sharp pain rose in Eric’s chest, and a lone tear streamed down his face, as the brush he clutched snapped in two, forcing red paint to drip between his knuckles. He looked frantically out the window in an attempt to remember the look of terror frozen in her emerald eyes at the moment her heart had ceased to beat. But the memory was fleeting, and his masterpiece would stay unfinished.
He started to turn from the window when he caught a glimpse of a young woman examining the help wanted flyers posted to a near-by telephone poll. A sly smile crept across his face as he locked eyes, with her green gaze.
Becoming Writer 2016 Anniversary Contest 