Winter Graveyard
Chapter 3
The CEO's office was vast, cold as an icebox.
Alan sat by the floor-to-ceiling window reviewing documents. Sunlight cut sharp lines across his profile.
Five years had honed him into a sharp blade, its scabbard studded with diamonds, unable to hide the coldness within.
"What now?" He didn't look up; his pen scratched harshly across the paper.
I placed the proof on his desk. "Need your signature again."
He glanced at the paper and suddenly laughed. "Jane, do you think I have nothing better to do?"
My fingertips began to tingle – a warning sign of an attack. I gripped the desk edge, slowly crouching down, hearing his voice from above: "When you ran off with the money Grandma left, did you think you'd need my signature then?"
"That money..." I bit back, wanting to say Julia had secretly transferred it, but a violent coughing fit cut me off.
He stepped back, disgusted as I coughed blood onto the carpet. "Disgusting."
The office door opened. Anna walked in, dressed in Chanel, covering her mouth dramatically when she saw me. "Oh! Jane? It's been ages! What happened to you?"
She linked her arm intimately with Alan's, her crimson nails like blood. "Alan, really, Jane is after all your..."
"Shut up." Alan shook her off, his gaze icy. "Who said you could come in?"
Anna's face paled, but she forced a smile. "I just heard Jane was here. Remembering how close we all used to be..."
Used to be?
Her and Julia – both repulsive.
Senior year, Julia stole my competition design sketches.
At the awards ceremony, Julia wore the dress I designed, claiming it was our "shared vision."
"I have to go." I grabbed the document to leave, but Alan stopped me.
"I'll be there for the graduation show." He leaned against the desk, twirling his pen. "I want to see what you've learned in five years, besides playing the victim."
On the way back to campus, I bought the cheapest voice recorder I could find.
The doctor said my memory was faltering; sometimes I'd suddenly forget who I was or what I was doing.
Afraid I might not make it to the show, I decided to record everything I wanted to say.
The bulletin board by the dorm displayed the grad show poster. My name was first.
Beside it was the sponsor's logo – Dale Group – glaringly prominent.
The fluorescent lights in the studio hummed. I stared at the patch of still-wet gray-blue on the canvas, my knuckles white with effort.
The helplessness from ALS was like a tide; every lift of my arm felt like fighting an ocean.
On the easel was the draft of Winter Graveyard. I'd added a small figure beside the tombstone, wearing faded school clothes, carrying an old sketchbook – it was me, five years ago.
"Jane, your hand is shaking badly. Take a break." My junior, Cathy, placed a hot cocoa on the paint table beside me.
I shook my head, wiping sweat from my forehead with my sleeve.
I had no time to spare.
Last night, I fumbled in the dark for a dropped water glass. My fingers trembled uselessly in the air for ten solid minutes. That utter loss of control was more terrifying than death.
"This painting..." Cathy cautiously studied the canvas. "That blurry figure beside it is..."
"My sister." I dipped my brush in titanium white, dotting small daisies before the tombstone. "Her favorite when she was alive."
Julia.
The name was like shards of glass hidden between teeth, cutting my mouth bloody at the mere mention.
She was Grandma's pride, the moonlight cradled in Alan's hands.
I was always the dust living in her shadow.
During the city-wide art exams senior year, she stood on the podium holding my painting, Old Church in Morning Fog, which I'd labored over for three sleepless nights. She told the cameras, "This piece was a collaboration with my sister, but the main concept was mine."
Alan watched her from below, his gaze melting with tenderness.
I stood at the back of the crowd, clutching the torn scraps of my drafts, a complete joke.
"Jane, was your sister... very talented?" Cathy's voice pulled me back. "I heard an old professor mention a senior named Julia five years ago, almost got a full scholarship to Paris Fine Arts... such a shame..."
"Shame she died." I stabbed my brush into the paint box. Titanium white splattered onto the deep blue canvas like sudden tear stains.
Only the hum of the lights remained. I stared at Julia's blurred silhouette on the canvas and suddenly laughed.
Alan, you see? Even her death, you blame on me.
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