13.3

 

Roisin felt something shift inside her — a subtle, terrifying recognition, like a memory she didn’t know she had. A man lying on the floor, his hands over a gaping wound in his stomach, his eyes pleading with her for help she couldn’t offer. A kitchen knife on the floor next to him, handle and blade covered in his blood, the very tip of its serrated blade broken off and lodged in his L2 vertebrae. A child, four years and two months old lining in his tiny bed next to a stuffed brown dinosaur, his arms and torso covered in old bruises and his windpipe crushed by hands which had gripped all the way around the neck and left it distorted as the life left his body. A young woman in a tiny bathroom, the smell of fresh paint ant tiling caulk still discernible above the strawberry scented line of soap on the sides of the bath, the water beneath turned red with her blood and the remains of a mid-range vodka bottle poured out onto the bathroom rug. She locked eyes with her, seeing the depth of despair in those still-seeing eyes and knowing that her whole life was as autonomous as a marionette in a children’s stage play. A woman, snatches of her life playing in staccato images as she fell down a flight of steps, scattering to the wind as transient as the raindrops of yesterday. A seventeen-year-old girl watching some oncoming lights become larger and larger as her lips shape the words of the last song she’ll ever hear.

The artist lowered his hand and stepped back, watching the tears flow freely down her cheeks. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

The assistant exhaled shakily. “We should go.”

The artist didn’t look at her. His gaze remained fixed on Roisin. “You shouldn’t return.” His voice was as soft as the wind through a cherry tree on a clear, spring day.

Roisin swallowed. “Why not?”

The assistant squeezed her hand, her nails digging into Roisin’s palm in a silent plea.

The artist’s voice was barely audible. “Because they remember.”

Roisin felt her skin prickle and the tears dried on her cheeks. “Who does? Remember what?”

He didn’t answer, just turned away, his coat brushing the floor as he walked back toward the third painting. He stood before it again, still and silent, as though he had never moved.

The assistant tugged Roisin’s hand. “Come on. Now.”

She let herself be pulled toward the door. Her legs felt unsteady, her breath shallow. She kept her gaze fixed on the floor, afraid that if she looked back, she would see something she couldn’t unsee.

They reached the entrance.

The assistant unlocked the door with shaking hands.

Cold air rushed in as Roisin stepped outside, the assistant following and closing the door behind them. The catch closed with a soft click and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

The assistant let go of her hand at last and whispered, “He’s never said that much before.”

Roisin stared at her. “What does it mean?”

The assistant shook her head. “I don’t know.”

But Roisin could tell she was lying.

The assistant knew something.

Something she wasn’t ready to say.

The cold hit Roisin first — a sharp, metallic chill that felt as if it could cut through the thin clothes she was wearing. This cold had weight. It clung to her skin, seeped into her sleeves, settled behind her ribs. She pulled her coat tighter, but it didn’t help. She scraped her phone from her pocket, desperate for something to anchor her to the present, away from those memories of dead and dying people. Eight thirty-five PM. It felt later than that, as if it should be after midnight, when the night creatures prowled the streets. She felt like she was one of them, undeserving to live amongst decent folk.

The assistant locked the door with trembling hands. The key scraped against the metal, louder than it should have been. When the padlock clicked into place, the sound echoed down the empty street like a warning.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Roisin stared at the frosted glass of the gallery door. The faint glow of the emergency lights inside cast a pale, trembling rectangle onto the pavement. She half‑expected to see the artist’s silhouette appear behind it — tall, thin, still — but the glass remained blank.

The assistant finally exhaled, long and shaky. “We shouldn’t have stayed that long.”

Roisin turned to her. “You said we had to witness.”

“I said we had to witness his presence,” the assistant corrected. “Not… that.”

Roisin frowned. “What did he do?”

The assistant shook her head. “It’s not what he did. It’s what he didn’t do.”

Roisin felt a prickle along her arms. “What do you mean?”

The assistant hesitated, glancing back at the gallery door as though afraid it might open. “He spoke to you.”

Roisin swallowed. “He spoke to you too.”

“Not like that,” the assistant whispered. “Not as if he knew me or cared about me.”

Roisin felt her pulse quicken. “Knew me?”

The assistant wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. “He’s never looked at anyone the way he looked at you.”

Roisin didn’t know what to say.

The assistant continued, voice low. “He usually ignores me. Or doesn’t see me. Or pretends not to. But tonight—” She stopped.