Chapter Text
Carcass / Creation – by Alicia Greene.
Well, that’s the name I advertise it with, at least. I had to come up with something that sounded captivating on fliers and Instagram. There’s hundreds of other artists in Asheville- and honestly, that’s lowballing it. I needed to stand out if I wanted anyone to come to my first solo exhibition. Really, I’ve always struggled to name things when it came to my work. Titles feel too limiting.
My teeth dig into my lower lip as I fiddle with my phone. 6:56pm. Only four more minutes until the opening reception was set to begin. I stuff my cell back into my coat pocket and rock on my heels.
It’s strange to look around the gallery space and only see my work. I’m so used to being exhibited alongside others, my canvases displayed next to sculptures and the occasional performance. A part of me prefers the company, honestly. The more other artists are present, the less people on average I have to talk to, and the less people I’ll embarrass myself in front of when I can’t find the right words to describe my creative process.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale. You can do this, Alicia. It’s just two hours of your time. Two little measly hours of people-ness. Then you’ll be home, you can unwind, and you can spend the rest of your birthday in quiet and comfort.
I’m not sure why Past Alicia suggested the show open on her birthday of all dates. Am I a glutton for punishment or something? I don’t think so. Maybe I just wanted the day to be extra special- and what’s more special than a birthday, especially one that celebrates a whole quarter of a century around the sun? You don’t exactly get to celebrate that twice!
Another anxious look at my phone. 6:58. Oh god, it’s so close. My throat’s so tight it’s like I’m trying to breathe underwater through a straw. What if no one comes? What if everyone comes? I can’t tell which is worse. ‘No one’ is worse for my wallet and better for my psyche, but ‘everyone’ is worse for my psyche and better for my wallet. Oh god.
At long last, 7pm arrives, and the people stream in. I’m hyperaware of every time the doors swing open, a new person entering the space. I can’t help but stare at them, scrutinizing their expression for any signs of approval- or lack thereof. Each time someone enters, it feels less and less like my paintings are the center of attention, and more like I’m the piece on display.
“Where do you get all the… material?” someone asks. I turn around to see an older woman standing several feet away. She glances between me and the piece she’s staring at- a more abstract, red-heavy painting dotted with feathers and bird skulls.
“I typically collect them while hiking or get them from a local butcher,” I answer, trying to keep my voice light and reassuring. This isn’t the first time I’ve been asked this. “Or from specialty stores online. I don’t hunt them. The animals are already dead by the time I get their bones.”
“I… see,” the woman mumbles, her face still pale as she moves to the next painting.
A part of me is a little concerned I get asked about the bones so often. Then again, I guess it’s a pretty understandable inquiry, given how often I use them in my paintings. I could never kill an animal for art. Hell, I don’t think I could kill an animal period. Well, not on purpose, at least. Sure, I hit a squirrel with my car that one time, but that wasn’t malicious. No, I love nature too much to do anything but marvel at it. Luckily for me, Asheville is absolutely full of opportunities to do just that. Not only are we nestled amidst the scenic Blue Ridge, but we’re home to the highest mountain peak on this side of the Mississippi. And man, the views from atop Mount Mitchell are something else. If I could move my studio space up there, I would.
The sound of the door opening yet again pulls me out of my contemplative daze, but when I lay eyes on the newest guest, apprehension is the last thing on my mind.
Ember’s here.
She walks further into the gallery, her arms behind her back. Her tall stature and dark hardware store plaid and overalls make her stick out like a sore thumb against the pastels and neutral hues of the other appropriately-dressed attendees. It almost feels like the universe is affirming just how special she is.
My girlfriend’s eyes meet mine and her once casual, ambling pace quickens, closing the gap between us.
“Hey,” she greets, that easy, close-lipped smile on her face never wavering. “Sorry I’m late. Some guy was browsing so long after closing that I had to practically kick him out the door.”
“It’s okay,” I rush to reassure. “Seriously, you haven’t missed much.”
“Other than the birthday girl, of course,” she counters.
“It’s your birthday too,” I point out. No clue how I managed to get a girlfriend with the same birthday as me, but at least this way I’m never in danger of forgetting the date.
“Yeah, but I’m not the birthday girl getting flowers.”
I don’t even have time to react. As soon as she’s said her piece, she pulls her arms out from behind her, revealing a multicolored bouquet of gladioluses.
Every blood cell migrates to my face at once, and it’s all I can do not to burst into an overwhelmed, excitable babble as I take the bouquet from her. God, how’d I get so lucky? “Oohhhh, Ember!” I squeak, my response so high the dogs of Asheville are probably going nuts. “My present’s back at the apartment, I didn’t think-”
Ember shakes her head. “No, no, it’s fine, seriously. I wasn’t gonna make you hold a gift for me for two hours. Besides, your real present’s in the car. Figured we’d swing by your place afterwards and open it there.”
“Only if you open mine first,” I say.
She chuckles. “Deal.”
We stroll through the gallery, Ember complimenting my newer works while I answer the occasional question. This is nothing new, of course- it was at an art fair that we met in the first place. We hit it off, she took a business card, came to more shows, and friendship quickly blossomed into something more. Fuck, how long ago was that? A year now? Damn, it feels like yesterday. Guess time really does fly when you’re having fun.
“What’s this one’s deal again?” Ember asks, pulling me out of my reminiscing haze.
I follow her finger, stopping to regard the indicated object. She’s staring up at my largest piece yet- For Life. Globs of green and blue paint coat the canvas, varied in depths and hues. Some swirl easily together, mixed before they could dry, while others clash, hardened shades atop shades, their colors fighting for dominance. It’s a violent, textured facsimile of rippling water, undulating waves. In the center, hundreds of little, individually colored bones mark the splattered canvas, the objects organized into the shape of two curving swan necks. The bony heads curl toward one another, forming the shape of a heart.
“I’ve always liked swans,” I tell her. “They’re my favorite. They’re beautiful, and graceful, but they’re also incredibly fierce and territorial.” Warmth floods my cheeks, my fingers fiddling with a gladiolus stem. “And, well, they mate for life.”
“Always a romantic,” she says, a warm smile crinkling her amber eyes.
I tuck a dyed red lock behind my ear, my flushing face almost as red as my hair. “Baaabe, stooop,” I breathe, weakly protesting.
“Why?” she asks, chuckling. “You’re cute when you blush.”
My legs feel like jelly. God, I can’t help it. She’s perfect.
With Ember around, the end of the reception comes far faster than expected- not that I mind, of course. People become far less frightening in her presence, her confident aura giving my terrible social skills a desperately needed boost. I even get to talk to a local artist whose interested in a potential collaboration! Score one for Alicia!
Once the gallery’s closed, Ember and I get out of there. My apartment’s within walking distance, so the car drive back isn’t exactly long. I spend the duration of it casting longing glances to the gift bag placed at my feet, thinking about whatever might be inside. I don’t dare peek and ruin the surprise- the flowers are enough of a treat for now.
I push open the apartment door, immediately greeted by the familiar sounds of a too-loud video game.
“Yooooo, how’d it go, birthday girl?” my roommate, Chris, calls. He’s sitting on the couch, eyes glued to the television screen. He’s playing some fighting game, a woman in a red witch hat throwing down against a bedframe.
“Pretty well,” I reply. I shut the door behind me, carrying the bouquet to the kitchen island. I think I’ve got a vase around here I can put this in. I’d hate to let these dry up as soon as I get them. For as much as I work with dead stuff, living flowers are always so pretty…
“Don’t be so humble, Alicia,” Ember lightly chastises. “It went great! People loved it.”
My cheeks warm. “You think everything I do is great.”
“We’re dating. That’s part of the job description.”
I chuckle. “Hang tight. I’ll grab your present in a second.”
“‘Your’ present?” Chris repeats. He pauses his game, turning around on the couch to watch us. “What is this, some kind of lesbian reverse-birthday ritual I don’t know about?”
My face grows hotter, but Ember merely snorts. “It’s my birthday too, dumbass.”
His eyes widen. “Oh, shit, for real? Happy birthday, brude!”
Ember raises a brow. “Brude?”
I wave a hand, trying to hide the fact that my cheeks feel like the surface of the sun. Oh god, why does he have to say his Chrisisms around my girlfriend? “It’s ‘bro’ and ‘dude’ combined,” I hurriedly explain, head down. “He’s been trying to make it catch on for the last month and a half.”
“I really think I’m onto something!” Chris counters. “All slang starts from somewhere! Think about it, Ally! I could be the genesis of brude!’
“Emberdoyouwanttoopenyourpresent?” I squeak, grabbing the wrapped object from its spot on the counter. Anything to change the subject.
“Of course,” Ember says. She takes the wrapped rectangle from me, tearing into the paper with an eager efficiency. I’ve always envied her ability to open stuff without making a mangled mess of the thing. I can’t even open letters without making it look like the envelope’s gone through a paper shredder. An artist with unsteady hands feels like an awful combination, but I’ve managed to make it work for me, somehow.
Ember gasps as she releases the gift from the colorful paper shell. It’s the latest Jelly Roll album on CD. I’ve never been into country myself, especially people who try and mix country and rap or hip hop, but she’s been obsessed with the guy for years now, and I’d have to be the most oblivious person in the world to not to realize he’s her favorite artist. “Oh, shit!” she exclaims, turning it over to reveal the swooping sharpie script across the back. “And it’s autographed?! Alicia, where’d you get this?”
I beam. “He was selling them on his Facebook page. I knew I had to grab one for you.”
“Shiiiit,” she whispers, voice breathy and near reverent. “This is going my car immediately.”
I can’t stop smiling. She loves it. Fuck yes. Fuck yes. I’m getting such a good grade in girlfriend.
She places the signed CD on the island, pushing the gift bag across the countertop toward me. “Alright, your turn,” she says, dark eyes shimmering with anticipation.
She doesn’t have to tell me twice. I immediately stuff my hand into the gift bag, fingers greeted to a square, flat plane that feels like… canvas?
Intrigued, I pull the object out to get a better look. My suspicions were correct- it’s a small canvas panel, only four inches by four inches. The front is covered in paint, the squiggles and strokes depicting a crude image of two girls clearly meant to be Ember and me. Paint-Ember and Paint-Me stand in a heart with their hands clasped together, the world around them awash in orange sunset.
“I’ve never been good at art,” Ember elucidates, “but you’re always making stuff and… well, I wanted to make you something for once.”
“Oh,” I whisper. The word comes out choked, squeaky. “Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh my god.” My eyes sting, swimming with tears. “Ember,” I whimper. “Oh my god, Ember, this is so thoughtful… shit, when did you even do this?”
She shrugs casually, like she didn’t just make me burst into tears. “Eh, I’ve had it for a bit now. There was one of those ‘drink and paint’ things going on somewhere.”
“Oohhhhhh,” I whine, the noise like a tea kettle. I can’t stop staring at the little renditions of the two of us standing hand in hand. The art leaves a lot to be desired, but the feeling is there and… fuck I love her so much. “Emberrrrr.”
I throw my arms around her, unable to stop myself. I push myself up on my tiptoes, peppering her in little kisses- her chin, her cheeks, her nose. She wraps her arms around my waist as pulls her closer, pressing her lips against mine as my amorous pecks reach her mouth. Faintly, I hear Chris in the distance telling us to get a room, but I drown out his joking with the sound of noisy smooches.
Ember can’t stay long- she’s got work in the morning, so we make do with the time we’ve got. We order some Chinese food, have a couple drinks- hell, we even manage to get Chris to turn off his video game long enough for us to watch a movie together. It’s nothing extravagant, of course, but I wouldn’t have wanted anything crazy for my birthday to begin with. Her presence here is the only present I need. Heh. She’d find that funny. Regardless, the time flies, and before I know it, she’s walking back out the door.
“Good night!” I call, watching her vanish down the hallway. She returns my shouting with a lazy wave and a wink, Jelly Roll CD in hand. Once she’s out of sight, I close the door, sighing wistfully before heading to bed.
I curl up under the covers, unable to stop myself from smiling.
Best. Birthday. Ever.
* * *
It’s loud, too loud, too loud!
The ringing is endless, humming in the air. Too loud! My teeth grind together, threatening to shatter like glass. The muscles bulge along my throat, straining as I seethe. Too loud. Too loud. Too too too too loud. I can barely hear Paracelsus under all the terrible noise. My head thrashes from side to side, hair whipping wildly with the force.
We’d merely been wandering, my beloved and I, when his little voice piped up in confusion. He said he heard something, but I didn’t know what he meant, at least not at first. The longer I stood there, the more apparent the noise became. Ringing, awful ringing, shaking the earth, vibrating my bones. I’ve never heard it before, but now I can’t shut it out.
Paracelsus cries out in my grasp, barely audible beneath the terrible, endless ringing. My blood boils at the sound. It’s confused. It’s pained.
Someone’s hurting my Paracelsus.
I pull him protectively against me, fingers tight around his shaft. His pitiful whimpers rattle through me. His voice is the only thing I want to hear, and this awful, awful, awful ringing sound won’t even grant me that! It’s torture, I’m so close and yet-
My legs drop out from underneath me, and I drag him down. I can’t feel my legs, my torso, my arms. They’re vibrating with the same frequency of this awful, endless sound, the static numbness climbing up my neck, sweeping over my face even as I try to SCREAM and
* * *
I don’t have time to consider the meaning of the dream. My eyes fly open, and the first thing I smell is blood.
I sit up in a panic, vision swimming. Blood. Why can I smell blood? Did I accidentally cut myself on something? My hair feels weird, the locks on either side of my scalp adhered to my head in dried, metallic-smelling clumps. Is my head bleeding? Shit. I don’t remember hitting it on anything. I reach up to investigate and-
What is that?
My hand’s bumped into something. There’s something hard jutting out of my skull. My fingers trace over the shape. It’s lumpy and metallic, with rounded edges, I give it a tug, grimacing. Whatever it is, it’s connected. I try to twist the unidentified thing and get it loose, but even the briefest sensation of motion sets my teeth on edge. Ow- okay, no, no. That’s not gonna work. I have to figure out what this is before I start messing with anything on the off-chance I accidentally make whatever’s going on worse.
I shuffle into the bathroom to investigate and
and
and there’s-
There’s a key sticking out of my head.