Ruined her innocence

FALLON

I'm strolling hastily through Central Park, slowly sipping on my still warm caramel cappuccino to go. It's only a thirty-minute walk from my penthouse on the east side of Manhattan to the west side where Greg's gallery stands, but it will take me less to get there. And I still have plenty of time ahead.

I'm turning around the whole time as I walk.

That feeling like someone has been following me, stalking me, is back again. I'm doing my best not to succumb to that fear. But my legs don't listen to my mind. The same goes for my heart, disobediently skipping every beat.

Crossing over the Triplets Bridge, I know I'm almost there. The tube dangles against my back over a thick strap attached to it as I carry it across my body. I don't feel much of its weight as only my canvases lie nicely rolled inside of it. Greg will frame them.

My chaotic thoughts wander freely inside my crazed mind. It's Wednesday, mid-afternoon, and I'm already so confused and shaken up, feeling beyond exhausted from all that insomnia.

That fucking nightmare woke me up again this morning, too early like every previous day. And again, I couldn't retrieve the slightest memory of what it was that kept on haunting me, starting three months ago. Like something dark and dangerous is repeatedly blocking my mind from recovering those images.

But I know it is nothing remotely pleasant because there are these impressions, building castles and towers of unknown terror inside me, cold shivers running up and down my spine, tingles crawling all over my skin.

Each time, my heartbeat goes erratic, my breathing becomes ragged, and my body starts to quiver in fear and panic. My blood freezes into the strings of red, icy beads over and over again upon waking up. Something awful and misty can't stop wrapping itself around my soul, never letting me see what it is. It makes me feel so helpless, exposed, and dead broken every time upon opening my eyes. And all that happens without any logical reason.

So, the first thing I did after waking up was to look around the room as usual. Then, under my bed and outside of the window, searching for monsters. But I found nothing today, just as before, sighing in relief.

And add that feeling of someone stalking me during the broad daylight, plus my foggy memories to that, and it all together scares the shit out of me.

What the hell is happening to me? Am I going nuts? Paranoid? Schizophrenic?

I slide the tinted glass gallery's door open, finding the tall blonde guy behind it, hanging and adjusting paintings across the walls. He does it so effortlessly. Hearing me enter, he turns around, opening his arms to greet me, striding in my direction.

"Hi, Greg!" I kiss my cousin's cheek as I leap into his soft embrace, and he kisses me back, taking the tube containing paintings off my body with a single firm yet careful tug of his hand. Greg's smile brightens the dimmed atmosphere of the spacious hallway, the gallery's main exhibit area. There are over sixty art pieces, all painted by my hands, displayed for tonight's event.

"You look like shit, Fallon. When did you wake up?" The look on my face thanks him for pointing it out as I rub my eyes and gaze at his grayish-blue eyes. His hair is curly and a bit longer than the last time I saw him. It sure grows faster than mine.

"Like I don't fucking know it! My usual, 3.48 am." There was no need to check the time since I already knew it was too bloody early.

I wake up well before dawn every day. Like out of habit, I glanced at the screen of my phone. Just great! I could have tried to get some more sleep, but I knew better than to hope. It would happen again. Within half an hour, almost as soon as I'd fall asleep, I would wake up again. No point trying that.

"Nightmares again, huh? You should call that Dr. Gibson that Melissa recommended." I know I should, but I never do, resorting to another form of therapy.

Luckily for me and my sanity, I happen to be an artist, a painter. We gift all our free time to our passion, and we throw all our emotions out through the madness of our art. So, after waking up, I climbed the stairs. Reaching the loft of my condo, I switched all possible lights on. The canvases waited stretched, and I grabbed the brushes. Then I mixed some oil paints. Black and red, a lot of red.

My color palette changed so much..., since Rome, since Italy. Red as blood and black as my shadowed dreams, being my signature nowadays.

"Yeah, nightmares. I r-rather..., p-paint than t-talk, you k-know me...! Where is M-Melissa, Greg? Did you two hook up already?" I ask my cousin while stuttering. It's also a new thing for me, ever since Rome, like having the damn PTSD.

The slightest mention of nightmares, evoking awful anxiety within me, is enough to trigger it.

"Here I'm. Let's have a coffee! I'll tell you all about your bastard cousin." Ignoring Greg, the red-haired woman, wearing a black dress, lurks behind their green office door at the end of the hallway, inviting me inside. I can tell she is oh-so angry at him.

"I had a coffee, but I won't refuse another one. What the hell did he do?"

After closing the door behind us, she begins the story I already guessed. Greg disappears like a coward within the gallery to frame my latest work and stay out of Melissa's path.

"That bastard!" I tell Melissa, taking her side in the matter about the two.

They almost hooked up last night. He doesn't want a relationship but wants to keep things strictly sexual and casual between them, saying he doesn't date. She told him she wanted more, admitting to having some feelings for him.

"I told him to stay away from me then!" She sighs, looking sad.

I think they are perfect for each other, but Greg is an idiot like most men are these days. The girl started working at my cousin's gallery two months ago, and we clicked at the first hello. They are the only two people that I have some meaningful contact with presently. So, I also have a selfish interest in them, getting along. As she talks more, I think about Rome.

It all started with that vacation, visiting the Eternal City for a week.