My feet carried me, even though my brain had stopped working. I looked around the room, soaking in every one of my paintings.
Even paintings that were sold in an auction at college, and some that I swore were in the basement of my studio, perfectly preserved for whenever I felt I could paint again.
They were all here, in this room, lining the walls, surrounding an empty work station in the middle, where I saw a blank canvas and every hue, tone, shade of paint I could think of. With brushes, clean and untouched.
My eyes wandered, taking in every one of my works, some were as old as 10 years, from when I had barely any technique but had the spirit of an artist(like my dad used to say).
"These are all mine", I finally said. Even with the words coming out of my mouth, I still found it hard to believe.
Almost all my paintings were here, in this room. All in Damiano's possession? But why.
"Wow, you're a hell of an artist", I heard Matteo say. he moved around too, taking in all the paintings, taking his time yet looking so completely stunned by each one and looking too close but never touching them.
*This was wrong,* I thought.
He had no right. Having these? Taking these from me.
I looked at one of my paintings I had never agreed to sell, one I had thought was kept away from prying eyes.
It was a painting of a swing, a swing that hung from the sky. The strokes were messy, the colours vibrant, the clouds looked like they did at sundown, colourful. Only they poured rain on the lonely swing, falling on an invisible child who sat there, head down and both hands gripping the swing.
The painting looked just like I remembered, even though I hadn't seen it in years.
It wasn't damaged at all, the colours looked just as vibrant. My signature is at the bottom right corner, like all my other pieces.
I didn't know how to feel, what should I feel?
How did he get these?
Why did he get these?
What for?
Was this going to be another game to him?
Was capturing me not enough that he needed to capture my art, too?
I turned to look at the blank canvas and the workspace. Anger is now the emotion I choose to feel. How dare he?
Put all this here, set this up. Like what?
Was this why I was here, to amuse him with my art?
To paint like I were his artist, locked in here for only his enjoyment?
"I've seen my fair share of art.
But this?
Sibel, this is...…." I heard Matteo exhale, taking a step back to look at a painting of trees in autumn.
"You are a wonderful artist", Matteo said, his attention was still on the piece.
"Not anymore", I corrected him.
Before he could say anything else, I dashed out of the room, having had enough. I felt Matteo's eyes follow me, but he didn't follow.
I hadn't been in a room with my art for years, let alone in a room with a workspace.
The feeling was complicated.
But the fact that the person who set it up was the person who held me captive?
The feelings were now mostly anger.
I walked back to my room, Dave hot on my trail, probably having the door slammed in his face as I got into the room.
Just then, I saw Damiano's frame, coming out of the bathroom, his body damp, wearing nothing but briefs, his dark hair fell on his face.
His gaze locked with mine just as I saw him, my chest heaved up and down.
Then, on instinct, I grabbed a vase, glad it was light enough for me to throw but heavy enough to cause damage.
Then I threw it, hoping to God it hit him and I'd see blood pool down his pretty face.
He dodged with ease, tossing the towel in his hand on the floor.
I grabbed the next ornament, throwing it in his direction again.
"You fucking bastard!", I screamed and threw the next thing I could find, he dodged that easily too.
"You'll run out of things to throw", he pointed out, his voice calm.
I took off my sandal, walking over to him, but keeping a safe distance.
He caught the footwear easily, looking more amused than annoyed. I even saw the corners of his lips curl up slightly.
He found this amusing?
"Why do you have my paintings?" I asked.
One of his thick brows arched, as if confused by my question.
"I paid for them", he answered. Like that was the simple truth, and I was exaggerating.
"No, you did not!
Many of those weren't for sale!
"Everything is for sale, Sibel", he said, his words acting as gasoline to my fury.
"Not my art, not to you".
He dropped the sandal in his hand, then stalked towards me. It took more willpower than I thought to not take a step back and stand in place.
"I love art.
Yours were beautiful, so I bought all of them.
Why is that a problem?
That I'm a man who enjoys the finer things in life", I swallowed, his voice hinting that he wasn't just referring to paintings.
"You had no right", I shot back, my voice coming out lower than I wanted it to.
He took more steps towards me, almost closing the space between us.
I took a step back, needing air as his scent hit my nostrils.
"I have the right to take whatever I want", he said. His words made my stomach churn, but also made my chest heat up with anger.
He moved in closer, leaving almost no space between us, his stormy eyes searching mine. His eyes watched my lips conspicuously.
I felt that feeling again, just like the other day.
Then his eyes locked with mine again. Today, the grey in his eyes looked darker, and for the first time, I noticed hints of green in them.
"Your art has always been exceptional.
You were, and I'm sure you still are, very talented.
Your choice of colours always managed to astonish me with every piece of yours I saw.
Your precision when you paint...…..how could someone hold a brush like that, so mad yet so, so meticulous.
Capturing every aspect of life, from the dust in the rays of sunlight, to the tiny drops of water having refractions of colour.
I couldn't believe someone so dexterous would ever put down a paint brush". His tone sounded honest, his eyes also confirmed it; he spoke like he had seen me paint, like he had studied my paintings so closely, so intently, for what now sounded like years.
Like he had been following me for years, keeping watch.
The rage that had left briefly returned, my cheeks felt hot, and I could tell he noticed the red in them now, because his eyes searched my face.
Emotions dancing behind his beautiful, hued eyes briefly, almost hard to miss.
I didn't know when my palm met his cheek, it was only when I felt his cheek that I realised I slapped him. Because his face didn't show much, not hurt or stung. He moved closer, causing me to move backwards till my legs touched the side of the bed. Almost falling on the mattress with how closely he stood now.
"Will you paint again?" he asked.
His words stunned me, making me wish he had said something snarky or a threat.
But instead, he said those words, asked like he genuinely wished to see me paint, like that was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
His question even sounded like he was pleading.
"I will never paint for you", I said defiantly.
"I would never ask you to paint for me.
But I'd want nothing more than for you to paint for yourself.
You had a look in your eyes when you used to paint...…..it's gone now".
This man didn't know me, he knew nothing about me.
That was what I was reminding myself of then, only it felt like a lie.
I wish he were far from the truth.
That I hadn't felt empty before he took me, feeling like I had nothing without my painting. But not being able to draw or paint even a line.
Even surrounding myself with other people's work didn't help; it felt like my own personal prison.
My life was never what I thought it should be, which was why I felt scared on my wedding day.
I knew somehow that I didn't want that life, and apparently so does Damiano.
But I didn't want this life either.
"You took away what little spark I thought I had." My words came out low, but he was close enough to hear me.
I saw his jaw tighten, his eyes darken.
Then he moved back, turned around, and walked away. Allowing my lungs to finally draw air, clean air.