A Rose by Any Other Name

Chapter 3

"So I'm an artist, huh?" I asked Mike, trying to push past the awkward.

He looked at me. "Oh Derrick, you're more than that."

I tried to ignore the way he sounded when he said that and I definitely ignored how it made me feel. I rubbed at the stubble on my head, wondering how long it would take for my hair to grow back.

Mike seemed to sense that I wasn't in the mood to talk. He fidgeted awkwardly for a moment before he left me by myself in the room and I wandered, feeling lost and at home at the same time.

Later on Mike came into the art room, catching me unaware.

"What the hell, Derrick?" he seethed, rushing over to me.

I was standing on top of a rickety ladder, filling in that empty spot on the mural that was bothering me. I wasn't sure how long Mike was gone, everything just kind of fell away while I was painting. Is this who I was? It felt right somehow, me and the brushes. I hadn't known where anything was, but after a bit of exploring I found that the old me must have labelled things pretty extensively.

There was even a journal that old me must have kept but I wasn't ready to look at that right now. I pushed it inside of a desk and started trying to see what kind of artist I was. The mural called to me, and I turned on the ventilation fan before mixing.  I wasn't sure if I was right or left handed, but the brush felt good in my right hand. Had I gone to art school? Was that my job? Was I a struggling artist? Is that why my apartment was pretty ugly?

Questions swirled in my mind as I swirled the brush, considering more than the painting.

And those drawings. Why did I have drawings of Mike? Had he meant something to me? Why was he always hanging around? Why didn't I seem to have any other friends? My thoughts took a dark turn then, as I continued mixing paints until I was satisfied with the hue. Who was he? Was he a stalker? I narrowed my eyes, remembering the pictures...Maybe I was the stalker.

I tensed when he began yelling, almost falling off the ladder. I stumbled, for a moment, toppling at the top of the ladder, only thinking about how I had smudged the paint.

Hands settled on my waist, fingers digging into my hips stopping my inevitable fall. I looked over my shoulder, the closest thing I had seen to anger on Mike's face. Although, It was hard to take him seriously with the pale yellow apron he was wearing, frills and all. He just looked so...Domestic. I stifled a giggle.

"Derrick, this isn't funny. I was supposed to fix this ladder-" he struggled, hands still digging into my hips. "before the accident."

"You can let go of me now, Mr.Handyman." I said sarcastically, feeling like the heat of his fingers was penetrating beneath my few layers of clothing.

"Oh right. Sorry." His hands left my body and I was embarrassed how I almost missed the heat of his touch.

I climbed down the ladder slowly, noticing an ache in my leg. Once on solid ground, I carried my brushes over to a large, industrial looking sink in the corner of the room. I turned on the tap before putting my brushes in a bucket of filling water to soak. I faced the sink, feeling like Mike was watching me. Cleaning my brushes didn't take long, and every now and then I snuck a glance at Mike. Now that I paid attention some kind of sweet scent wafting off of him. " Were you baking or something, Martha Stewart?" I said, while drying off my hands with a paper towel.

Mike gasped. "You know who Martha Stewart is?"

I rolled my eyes. "Of course I do. She's an ex-convict remember? For fraud." I flicked the brushes in a bowl. "I hope they gave her access to a kitchen in there. I worry for her poor suburban soul." I dropped my brush and it fell into the water with a plop. "Wait- How the fuck do I know who Martha Stewart is?"