sanctuary | on hold indefinitely

twelve | abstract

Greer scowled at the painting in front of her. Her paintbrush was suspended between her fingers mid-air, green oil paint covering the black bristles and most of her hands. Around her, dozens of canvases were propped against the old brick walls, some of them still blank, some finished and gathering cobwebs, and some ruined with black paint by Greer's impatience. The one on the easel in front of her was about to join the latter.

Slow, dreamy music pounded from the speakers so loudly that it was giving her a headache and she threw her paintbrush and paints down, massaging her temples before sizing up her work again. It was supposed to be a painting of Clair, but nothing had turned out the way she'd wanted. Her green eyes were too far apart, her lips too thin and crooked, her face completely unsymmetrical. The colours were all wrong, too, all dull and indistinguishable. Before tears could fill in her eyes, she swallowed the lump in her throat and grabbed the black paint and a wide paintbrush. Then, with a clenched jaw and an impulsive jerk of her hands, she swiped the black across the canvas in harsh lines that covered Clair's misshapen portrait.

The music came to a stop suddenly. Greer's ears buzzed in the silence and she turned away from the ruined canvas, moving her hair from her eyes and smearing paint on her cheeks in the process.

Shyla stood by the radio, his hands in his pockets and his expression bewildered. "Remind me never to piss you off when you're around paint."

Greer flushed in embarrassment, placing down her paints on the table next to her and wiping her hands on an old towel. "I didn't realise you were here."

He took a step so that he was standing beside her, looking at the blackened canvas with wide eyes. He wasn't wearing his eye-patch today, though Greer suspected it would be hidden in his pocket in case her grandfather came home early.

"What did this painting do to deserve such abuse?" he asked after a moment of scrutiny.

"I couldn't get it right," she mumbled, trying to suppress the sadness and anger she felt. Still, it laced her words with self-loathing. "I wanted to paint Clair but ... I couldn't get her face right."

Shyla lowered his eyes, something he did often when he didn't know what to say.

"I'm worried I'm already forgetting what she looks like," she admitted in the silence, regretting it as soon as the words fell out. She turned away from the painting, blinking back her tears.

"Greer," he sighed sympathetically, pulling her in for a one-harmed hug.

His warmth was comforting, the mossy scent of his cologne lingering on his scarf and reminding her of her trek into the woods earlier this morning. She pulled away before she could get too comfortable, wiping her hands again, this time roughly so that the worn cloth chafed her skin. "It's stupid. Ignore me. Did you want something?"

He looked as though he wanted to argue, opening his mouth only to close it again when Greer cast him a glance that she was sure he knew by now meant, 'Let's not talk anymore about it.' Instead, he pulled his hand out of his pocket to reveal a small slip of paper that was torn at the edges.

Greer raised an eyebrow in question, taking it hesitantly. It was an address written in Shyla's familiar all-block capitals.

38 WOODLEY AVENUE,

THORNTON

"It's just outside of Blackpool. Closest one I could find who seemed authentic."

"Okay ... What is it?"

"A Necromancer." Greer opened her mouth to interject but he held his hand up quickly. "I know, I know, you said you weren't sure anymore, but I've been looking for weeks. I thought maybe you might change your mind at some point."

Greer sighed and stuffed the address in the pocket of her jeans. "I appreciate that, Shy, but I don't think that's going to happen."

He shrugged. "Like I said, if you change your mind. No pressure."

She nodded, packing up her paints and wiping down her paintbrushes so that she wouldn't have to meet his eye. "I helped her," she whispered after a moment's pause. "The Dark witch. I did the spell today."

The surprise was clear in his voice as he began to wander the studio, eyeing the paintings as though he hadn't seen most of them before. "That's great. What made you decide?"

She shrugged, turning around and watching as he leafed through a Van Gogh book that she had picked up years ago in an old charity shop and never touched again. "You, I suppose. You were right. She needed my help. She was waiting for me to turn up. I couldn't just leave her alone."

A satisfied smile crept at the corner of his mouth as he placed the book down.

"Don't look so smug," she scoffed. "If she turns out to be bad news or my grandfather finds out, it's your fault."

"I accept full responsibility," he laughed, stopping as he reached one of Greer's newer paintings. It was unlike any of her others: most of her pieces were portraits and figures. This one had been made from loss just after Clair's funeral, when she had stayed up all night busying her hands with her brushes in a tired, grief-ridden haze. It was all yellow spatters and jagged lines, murky greens and blazing reds, oranges and blues that curled in on themselves against the grey background. It was the confusion she had felt at having lost her aunt, a subconscious depiction of the flames she imagined had enveloped Clair in her last moments, and it was not something she was proud to display, though she couldn't bring herself to throw it out.

"This is ... Interesting," Shyla said, a question hidden in his words. "Abstract."

"It's nothing. Rubbish, like most of the other stuff in here."

"Greer," he softened, making his way back to where she stood by the window, where the sun was beginning to set over the trees. "You're a great artist."

"I haven't felt like it recently," she responded quietly.

He reached out and wiped the smeared paint from her cheek with the pad of his thumb, his touch gentle as it traced over her freckles. "I'm here for you. You know that, don't you? I know things have been a little off for us lately, but I'll always be your best friend."

She smiled as he lowered his hand, his thumb coming away with green and black. "I know. Thank you, Shy."

His eyes, despite their colour, were warm in the golden light.

She worried at her lip, looking again at the alarming difference between the colours of his irises. "You should go, though, before my grandfather gets home. I don't want to subject you to ... that."

His expression fell, but he took a step back and nodded in understanding. "Of course. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," she agreed, patting his arm lightly. Her fingernails were still caked in paint. She could only imagine what the rest of her looked like.

He gave her a wave and ascended up the stairs, which creaked under his familiar weight. The silence that followed the sound of the door clicking shut was suffocating, and Greer couldn't bring herself to look at the painting again as she tidied up her work space. She wondered what Clair would think of her now, of what she had done today for Devan Lee and the ways her friendship with Shyla was chipping like an old teacup because of her grandfather's beliefs.

For the first time, she could not even begin to guess how her aunt would feel if she was still here. The realisation sank her stomach and left it drowning in an unignorable tidal wave for the rest of the night.