I N C O G N I T O (on hold)

• classical •

The taste of smoke lingered on my tongue long after I'd tossed the cigarette. I licked my dried lips and continued to drag my pencil across the thick paper.

Art wasn't a hobby.

It was a lifestyle. It was me. It was all I had in a way, the only thing I had that no one could take. I was self-taught, which people find unbelievable because of how good my works are.

She was sad. I knew it before I'd even finished with the frown on her face. I was good with details, and even better with finding ways to portray emotion. And she was sad. Her eyes looked off into the distance. They were hard, cold. That's what the world does to us. Hardens us until we're desensitized to everything.

Somewhere in the background, Mozart's Regina Cœli KV 276 was playing.

I only listened to classical when I worked.

I leaned forward, my eyes trained on the shape of her lips and they way the were downturned. In art, everything mattered. Everything meant something. Every detail is important.

My wrist ached from the uncomfortable angle in which I had to put my hand, but I ignored the dull feeling and focused on what was in front of me. I feel what she feels.

I dropped the graphite pencil and went for my charcoal one, immediately bringing my hand back to the page. My hands moved quickly, without pause. I could see it.

I can feel it.

Sadness. Sorrow. Pain. Despair. Anguish.

Red, hot, anger—

"Valerie!"

The pencil point breaks.

I spun around, my eyes locking on my mother who stood frowning in the doorway.

"I've been calling you for minutes! No wonder you can't hear me—turn the music down, Valerie, I'm talking to you."

My hand blindly went to my phone and I tapped pause, my eyes barely drifting from her. She never comes in here. This was my safe haven. My studio.

Her eyes left mine and went over my shoulder, dancing over the drawing I'd just been working on.

"Every time I see one of your works, it takes me away," she murmurs. "I always forget how good you are. And then I look at one of these and it's like, my God."

My room in a house full of lies.

She steps further in, her eyes flitting over the walls. I'd hung up a lot of my art in here, paintings and drawing and pictures. I'd gotten very versatile with my work, trying a little bit of everything.

"Is there a reason you were calling me, mother?" I raised an eyebrow, eager for her to leave.

"Yes there's..." her hand raised, intending to touch a painting I'd only just completed a few days ago.

"Don't touch it!" I stood up. "It's oil. Still wet."

Her hand lowered. "We're having company over for dinner. I want you dressed and presentable, alright?"

"Yeah," I mumbled, picking up the broken pencil that I'd dropped and tossing it in the garbage. "Okay."

Picking up my phone, I ushered her out of my room. I grabbed the key, locked the door, and followed her downstairs and into the kitchen.

"Where's dad?"

"Should be home any minute. He went to pick up a few things from the grocery." She moved to the fridge. "Go shower, Valerie. They will be here in an hour or so. Get that stuff off your hands. What's that from? The charcoal?"