Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 75783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
I thought about reaching out to him and touching base, but every time I let my fingers hover over his contact in my phone, I stop myself. My fear is that being around Dawson is only going to cause me more pain. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forget what happened between us.
Dawson and I have too much bad history to ever work out. He’ll always see me as the victim, and I’ll always see him as a liar. The two of us aren’t meant to be together.
It’s just a tough pill to swallow.
For the time being, I just want to focus on healing my trauma. I’ve been drawing again. It took a long time to come around to wanting to make art, but it’s been therapeutic. The monsters that I used to make are still the centerpiece of my work, but they’re more raw and vivid than they’ve ever been before. I guess it took meeting more real-life monsters to truly understand the ones I create.
The first week of classes goes by in a blur. It’s mostly introductory information, going over the class syllabuses and covering the basics of the different courses. One of my classes happens to be more strenuous than all the others, with a very rigorous course load and nightly homework to be turned in online.
On top of that, there’s so many people to meet. Most people are extremely friendly and eager for the new life set out in front of us. I’ve actually made some friends. It’s nothing like what I thought school would be like, either. I’ve seen on plenty of TV shows and movies how strenuous college course loads can be. But then again, this is art school, and it’s focused more on us shaping our creativity and unique world views than anything else.
After Professor Carlson’s art history class on Friday, I head to the cafe on campus to get a head start on work before the weekend. I have some money saved up from working for Dawson, but I took a job at a cafe in town to make ends meet while I’m in school. Even though he agreed to pay my way through college, I feel as though I need to earn my own money too.
I take a seat at one of the tables with my laptop open as I begin looking up Caravaggio’s paintings online to study each and every one of them, putting them in chronological order. Professor Carlton is a big Caravaggio fan, which I can really get behind.
I start looking over his paintings, landing on the Medusa painting and studying it intensely. Looking at this painting, I understand why so many people who have stories like mine resonate with Medusa. It’s a tragic story of male power and always blaming a woman, making her a victim of their need to possess. I stare at the painting so long I feel like I start losing myself in it.
Then I get the sensation that I’m being watched. Tearing my attention away from the laptop screen, I look around the cafe to see that most other students have their noses in a book or are in the middle of drawing on their sketch pads or tablets. One of the perks of being in art school is being surrounded by like-minded artists. None of them seem to be paying me any attention though.
I’m about to shrug it off as paranoia when I look out the window. I freeze, my heart skipping a few beats when I see him standing outside. Dawson’s eyes meet mine, and he offers me a subtle wave.
Every cell in my body is alert. My brain is immediately associating him with very complex memories, and I don’t know how to navigate this properly.
I close my laptop screen and wave back at him, signaling for him to come in and join me. He walks in cautiously and looks around the cafe before taking a seat across from me.
“Hi,” Dawson says with a strange smile.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” I say. I do my best to keep my voice as emotionless as possible, but I don’t think I do a good job. My voice cracks, and I have to clear my throat to keep the emotion at bay. My breathing turns ragged, and Dawson takes note.
“I know. It’s not part of our arrangement that I show up unannounced like this, but there’s something I wanted to show you.” Dawson hesitantly pulls a folded newspaper article from his pocket. I nod, and he opens it and spreads it out on the table, pointing to an article in the obituary section.
I lean in closer to read what it says, almost expecting it to be something about what happened with Malik. When I read it, though, I’m nothing but surprised.