There was something transformative about being seen this way, about allowing another person to perceive me without the armor of clothing, expression, or movement. I felt simultaneously exposed and liberated, as if the very act of standing naked before Ezra somehow released me from the constant effort of concealment.
"Tell me about your mother," he said suddenly, the request so unexpected it nearly broke my concentration.
"What?" I managed, careful not to move from the position he'd arranged.
"Your mother," he repeated, his eyes flicking up to meet mine before returning to his work. "The one who hanged herself when you were eight. The one you watched for three days before telling anyone."
Ice flooded my veins. "How do you..." My voice trailed off, the question unnecessary. He had researched me, obviously, found the news articles, perhaps even the police reports.
He set down his charcoal for a moment. "What fascinated you most? During those three days."
"The way she changed," I said, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. "Hour by hour. The way light fell differently across her skin as time passed. The colors that appeared, unlike anything I'd seen before."
Ezra nodded, as if I'd confirmed something important. "You weren't traumatized. You were transfixed. It wasn't grief that kept you silent, but fascination."
My cheeks burned as his eyes drifted downward. “Do you find the thought of death arousing, Micah?”
“No,” I answered quickly, then hesitated before changing my answer. “Maybe.” Then, even quicker, “It’s not death. Not exactly. But my mother… She wasn’t a kind woman. I always felt so powerless when she was hitting me. But when she was hanging there, she was the one who was helpless. I don’t find that idea particularly satisfying in a sexual way so much as…. the feeling.”
“You like feeling powerful,” he said flatly.
The shadow inside me squirmed. “Who doesn’t?”
“Plenty of people,” he said and turned back to his work. “But there’s just as much power in surrender, Micah, a fact that you’re learning here tonight. Tonight, I’ve made you powerless. You chose to give up the societal constructs that let you hide the truth of who you are, and I captured it in charcoal and canvas. You chose surrender, because some part of you craves that sort of recognition. There’s no shame in being who you are, dear boy. Only in hiding it from yourself.”
I couldn't speak, could only stand there, naked and seen in ways I'd never experienced before. Ezra continued to draw, hishand moving in sure, confident strokes across the paper. Time blurred, minutes or hours passing as I remained motionless.
He was right. At any point, I could break the pose. I could cover myself or walk back behind the screen. I could put my clothes back on and leave. There was no gun to my head. I’d chosen this, chosen surrender. Chosen him.
But what did that mean?
When he finally set down his charcoal and stepped back from the easel, I felt disoriented, as if awakening from a trance. My muscles ached from stillness, yet I felt strangely invigorated, almost euphoric.
"You can move now," he said, wiping his hands on a cloth.
I rolled my shoulders and shook out my hands. "May I see?" I asked, gesturing toward the easel.
He considered for a moment, then nodded. "Come look."
I approached the easel, acutely aware of my continued nakedness but no longer self-consciousness. There was no point. He’d already seen me at my most vulnerable and nothing bad had happened. No fire. No floods. No damnation. There was just a drawing.
The portrait was both recognizably me and somehow more than me, rendered with a technical mastery that captured not just my physical form but something beneath the skin, something I recognized with a jolt of both fear and wonder.
In the shading around my eyes, in the set of my mouth, in the tension visible beneath the surface of my skin, he'd somehow revealed the shadow that lived inside me. The darkness that I'd always feared was visible, tangible in the play of charcoal against paper.
"That's..."
"You," Ezra said simply, standing close beside me. "Not as you pretend to be, but as you are."
I stared at the drawing, transfixed by the stranger who was unmistakably me, yet more honest than any mirror had ever shown. In Ezra's rendering, the darkness wasn't a flaw to be hidden or controlled, but an integral part of my being.
His fingers moved slightly, tracing the knobs of my spine with a touch so light it might have been imagined. "How do you feel?"
"Exposed," I whispered. "But also... free."
His lips curved into that almost-smile. "Exactly. Now you begin to understand."
He moved away suddenly. "Come here," he said, picking up the canvas. He laid it flat on the steel table.
