My attention returned to the canvas, to the strange communion between brush and paint and the images emerging without my conscious direction. The bone ash mixture moved differently than ordinary paint, sometimes seeming to flow upstream against gravity, settling into patterns I hadn't intended.
Only when I stepped back to assess my work did I realize what I'd created.
Ice flooded my veins.
My grandmother's face stared back at me from the canvas. Stern eyes, cold as January skies. Thin lips pressed in perpetual disapproval. The tight silver bun she wore until the day she died, not a single strand permitted to escape its rigid confines. I hadn't meant to paint her. I hadn't consciously summoned her from memory. Yet here she was, watching me with the same judgment that had followed me since childhood, haunting even this sacred space I'd found with Ezra.
Something broke inside me. The palette knife fit perfectly in my hand. I raised it toward the canvas.
For a moment, I simply stood there, knife poised, watching my distorted reflection in the metal surface.
The first cut into my grandmother's face felt like releasing a scream I'd been holding since childhood. The canvas gave way beneath the blade with a sound like tearing flesh, a resistance and then surrender that sent a shudder of pleasure down my spine. I dragged the knife downward, peeling away layers of paint to expose the raw canvas beneath.
I didn't stop with one cut. I worked with methodical violence, scraping away her face until nothing remained but a ragged void.
Each cut felt like liberation, like excising a cancer from my soul. Each slash of the blade released something poisonous from inside me, something that had festered for years in the darkness of shame.
Strong hands caught my wrists from behind. I was panting, chest heaving from exertion, sweat beading on my forehead. Ezra stood close, his chest against my back, his grip firm but not painful. I hadn't heard him approach, too lost in the catharsis of destruction.
"Who is she?" he asked, his voice soft against my ear.
Words escaped before I could filter them, raw and honest. "My grandmother."
"Tell me about her."
My breathing came fast and shallow, chest rising and falling rapidly against the constraint of his arms. "She was a God-fearing woman. Never missed church. The kind of Christian who believed suffering was holy."
"And she made you suffer in God's name." Not a question but a statement of fact, spoken with quiet certainty.
I nodded, throat tight with emotions I couldn't name. "She caught me sucking my sleeve when I was nine. Said it was a disgusting habit. Called me a baby."
"What did she do?"
My voice sounded distant, as if someone else were speaking through me. "Put me in the hall closet. No light. No sound. Just darkness until I learned my lesson."
"How long did she leave you there?"
"The first time? Hours. After that... sometimes overnight."
"And did you learn your lesson?" His breath was warm against my neck, raising goosebumps on my skin.
I shook my head. "I learned to hide it better."
Ezra released my wrists, and I sat heavily on a nearby stool, suddenly exhausted. Silence stretched between us as I stared at my hands, still speckled with paint. The ruined canvas blurred through unexpected tears.
Something stirred inside me. A need I didn’t have words for yet, something primal, but not mindless. It wasn’t about lust, not exactly. It was about safety. About being seen and still wanted. I thought of the night before: the weight of Ezra’s palm on the back of my head, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his chest had risen beneath my cheek like something holy. My grandmother would have called it perverse, unclean. But lying against him had felt closer to grace than any sermon I’d ever heard. It wasn’t sin; it was sanctuary. And I wanted that again. I wanted to return to that stillness and choose it on my own terms.
Ezra knelt before me, taking my face between his hands. His thumbs stroked gently across my cheeks, collecting tears I hadn't realized were falling.
"What is it, Micah?" he asked, his voice soft. "Tell me what you need."
I struggled to express it, my cheeks burning with shame even as desire coiled tight in my belly. "I..."
"Take your time. I'm not going anywhere."
He made no move to rescue me from my discomfort, no attempt to fill the silence or provide easy answers. Simply waited, patient and attentive, allowing me the space to find my own words.
"Last night," I finally managed. "I can't stop thinking about... your chest. How it felt in my mouth."
