Belle, an art student in need of a place to work on the paintings for her evaluation, makes the mistake of leaving it to her bungling cousin Craig to find that place for her.
And find her a place, he did...
"Craig! You said this house was, and I quo...
I'm on my third cup of coffee and my fifth scoop of ice cream before I even start to feel remotely better. It had all been a dream. A very vivid dream. That's all it was.
How did I know...?
"IT WAS A DREAM!"
Dropping my forehead to my arms folded on the worktop of the kitchen island, I sit quietly for a while, listening to the clocks doing their ticking.
Perhaps there'd been instructions in the doll, a map showing the location of the door, the passage, the beach. Perhaps...
Maybe the beach and this house stirred up my imagination, causing me to have vivid dreams and run around in the middle of the night like a crazy person. It makes sense in a nonsensical way.
I'll go with that.
I'll also go pack my things and wait for Ron to come and get my car going.
With the ice cream safely back in the freezer, I drag myself from the kitchen and through the house to the stairs. My head still feels thick and achy, and my nose is stuffed, but the scratchiness has let go of my throat. Dust often gives me sinus infections, and apparently, I've spent the entire night wallowing in it.
I climb all the stairs right up to the sunroom and push open the door.
The sketchpad is where I'd left it yesterday, propped up against a canvas on an easel. The drawing on it is more vibrant and bolder than I remember, and it is also not the view from the window I'd begun to sketch.
It is a portrait of a man with wind-swept hair, bathed in shadows and contrasts. It is a wild, unkempt kind of drawing. Rather impressive.
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It is definitely not the vague, sketchy, semi-inspired line drawing I started yesterday. I've never made a drawing like this in my entire life. I've used the technique before, but I don't do portraits.
Now when, in my busy sleeping schedule, did I even find the time to create this masterpiece of craziness? It must have been before I'd gone beachcombing because there are no dirty footprints on the wooden floor.
"Awesome, so I drew the dude even before I dreamt about dragging him from the sea."
The easel to the left of the one I'm standing at is not angled the way I so carefully set it up yesterday. Apparently, Luna felt compelled to rearrange things for me up here.
I'm too scared to open drawers and look in my boxes. Who knows what she got up to after drawing this awesome portrait?
I cautiously move towards the easel on the left and pass to its front to see the canvas. And now I know why my pyjamas are splattered with red streaks.
It's the same man from a different angle, this time not done in graphite but in oil paint, the colours of a vibrant sunset. Red, orange, yellow, some blue and green and lots of blacks. I didn't get a clear look at the man in my dream, but I know it is him. Wild hair blowing in the wind, dark shadows and strong brushstrokes mould and enhance his striking features.
The style is not that different from what I always use, perhaps a little more powerful and much less restrained. I usually first cover the canvas in colours complimentary to the ones I plan on using. This painting should technically have been made over a layer of greens and blues.
Luna obviously didn't have the patience to do the work in layers. It takes too long to dry.
She, no... I could have used acrylic for the base layer if I was in such a hurry, but... well... It doesn't matter; the painting works. The placement of green was done in such a way that it makes the reds more vibrant and alive; that is all that really matters.
"I am totally going to submit this one as part of my evaluation!"
Perhaps I should go back to sleep and see if Luna creates some more paintings for me to use...
Hell no!
The brush strokes and pallet knife work are definitely my techniques, though it's just the subject matter that is completely unlike my usual work. I do abstract landscapes and architecture, not people.
The man seems to be struggling to free himself from the canvas in the same way he'd been freeing himself from the sea. Forceful, determined, desperate. The painting, as the drawing, is quite violent. It is striking.
"Will it be cheating if I submitted it?"
Wide awake now, I wonder how I didn't realise last night that I was dreaming. The man had looked a lot like he does in the graphite drawing, indistinct, all dark shadows tinged with greyish blue, hair and clothes blowing in slow motion as if he was moving underwater. Even the blood streaming from his wounds had been darker than normal.
I never actually felt his skin or his hair, or his clothing when I'd tried to grab him. I didn't even realise it then. Perhaps I'd been too freaked out.
Who is he? Why am I dreaming about him? Why is he showing up in my paintings?
Up until recently, Hank and Craig had been the only close men in my life. I'm a bit of a recluse; I enjoy hanging out by myself. There are many people who consider me their friend, but I generally only meet them when they are in some kind of need; I don't really hang out with any of them.
Hank had been my only romantic interest for about two years, and Craig, as depressing as the idea might be, is my best buddy. I've never felt the urge to draw or paint either of them. The man in these artworks is definitely not Hank or Craig.
Neither Hank nor Craig has long dark hair like this. Hank's is short and blond with a disconnected undercut and a fringe styled in whatever way the latest trend prescribes. Craig's is honey brown, a little lighter than mine, and it is all over the place in messy curls and spikes. He lets his bed style his hair.
Seriously, is the loneliness of not having a boyfriend getting to me in such a way that I'm conjuring up muscular men that seem a little dangerous and very steamy? I cannot help but snort at the idea. I must really be over Hank, then. He didn't exactly fit any part of that description.
In the lower right-hand corner of the painting, my name is clearly written in white paint, Belle. I feel that it should say Luna, though...
"Well, it has my name on it, so at least I have one painting for the evaluation... Cool..."
I cross to the windows set in the wall facing the front of the house. What time was Ron going to arrive for the garden renovations so that we can get my car going? Drawing away one of the curtains, I can see the forest and the driveway very clearly.
It's quite a nice view from up here. A little sad when it comes to the neglect and deterioration of the yard because it definitely has the potential to be truly lovely. It will take a lot of work, though.
My car is still where I left it, I didn't expect it not to be, but to the left, near the corner of the house, I can see what appears to be a pick-up truck loaded with gardening equipment.
When did he arrive? I didn't hear him pull up.
Probably when I was crying my heart out into the scratchy teddy bear or searching the beach for dead people...
Did he knock? Did he ring the doorbell? Is there a doorbell?
I glance down at my dirty pyjamas and my feet, dry wiped but still in dire need of a wash.
I'm not meeting anybody looking like this! Not even Rude Ron!
