The Spare To The Throne

Chapter 62: Self-Esteem

"Isn't it weird how the Mona Lisa has no eyebrows?"

"Not really, no," Alice shrugs, her hands busy folding laundry.

I take another bite out of my tangerine. "I think it's weird like her forehead grew an extra two inches for no reason,"

Alice chuckles. "Well originally, the painting did have eyebrows," she explains. "It withered away when people tried to restore the portrait,"

I hum at this. Poor Lisa, trapped on a bleak canvas and eyebrow-less.

"I just don't get the hype. It's so boring,"

"Perhaps that's what makes it beautiful, it's ordinarity," Alice continues. "It currently resides in France. Not many people get to see it. Maybe one day Xavier will take you and you'll see the beauty yourself,"

That's highly unlikely. He told me he'll never go back there. Not since his past life is there and so is the family that neglected him so much. I think he hates them. There's still so much I aspire to know. Unfortunately, he's no open book.

"Where is he, by the way?" I ask. Last night was the first time I slept peacefully since the accident. The bed was empty when I woke up this morning though.

Alice finishes folding the laundry. She begins to put the clothes in their designated places. I've offered to help but she'd always swat my hand away and tell me to rest instead. We're currently in my room, hanging out.

"Gym," she says cooly. "If he's not in his office, he's always in there. Or the art room,"

The art room...

I remember the first time he took me up there. His paintings are absolutely astounding. There's a story behind each portrait and it's dark. The words he refuse to say are captured behind the strokes of a brush and I kind of want to see the place again.

"I'm going to the kitchen now, do you want to keep me company while I bake?"

"Maybe another time?" I suggest. I have something else in mind. Being that Xavier's in the gym, I want to go into his art room.

Alice nods in understanding. "Alright, if you need me, you know where to find me,"

She leaves the room and I smile at her. Out in the hall, I go up the same set of small stairs Xavier took me up once before. This is on the side of the house he stays in majority of the time, the west Wing.

As I walk, everything comes back to memory. This part of the house is exceptionally stark and desolate. There are so many empty rooms up here, I can't even begin to count.

Xavier's art studio is shut closed. The knob isn't locked though, so I enter.

This is invasion of privacy.

Is it?

I don't think he'll mind. After all, he's brought me here before. And if we're talking privacy, he's invaded mine a long time ago. So I doubt this is any foray.

The room is cold, no different from Xavier's room. What catches my attention are the varieties of new drawings. There are still canvases scattered chaotically over the floor. The room is almost a reflection of his inner reckless mind. An insight to just how disorganized and dark his head really is.

But Xavier has hung up more pictures on the wall now. Specifically, pictures of...me? My eyes squint at the almost full wall now. Every picture is so different yet so similar at the same time. There are pictures of me brushed in black and white, some colored and others monochromic. I touch the frame of a gray portrait, streaked with the deepest of strokes. A slender arm is painted, running along it are the jagged cuts that look all too familiar. They're my cuts, my slits.