Once Upon a Nightmare

the virgin's kiss

v: the virgin’s kiss

 

I go downstairs to the kitchen, taking in the usual mess. Since the narcolepsy, being awake is more bearable if I have something to do with my hands, something to concentrate on. Much as I love to read, it doesn’t help with my current state of mind and often makes me go to sleep when I don’t want to.

It’s nine o’clock when I finally finish scrubbing the last dish. I keep the small plate in my hands, rubbing it over and over with a rag even though it’s already clean.

“Violet?”

I jump a foot high and the plate slips from my hands, shattering on the floor. I groan, once my heart beat slows. “Sorry. I’m jumpy, I guess,” I mutter, bending to pick up the pieces.

“Don’t move—you have bare feet.” My dad steps in from the doorway. With both hands on my waist, he hoists me onto the nearby counter. It isn’t hard—I’m barely a hundred pounds—but still, I could have done it myself. I feel like a little girl, with my feet dangling over the counter. But I don’t mind at the moment, to be honest.

After Dad dumps the last of the shards in the trash, he observes the clean kitchen and whistles. “I forgot what our counters looked like. You do all this yourself?”

“Me and the kitchen elves,” I reply.

He nods. “You don’t usually . . .” He trails off, trying hard to avoid the “why” word.

“I was bored, and if I have something to focus on with my hands, it helps me stay awake and . . . attentive.”

Dad doesn’t answer for a minute, then asks, “You want to try painting?”

He’s giving me permission to enter the studio?

“I . . . sure, yeah,” I manage, dumbfounded.

He gestures for me to follow him. We go outside and he drags the shed door open, letting me go in first. Inside there is hardly any place to walk it’s so crowded and disorganized. The air is slightly toxic from all the paint, but Dad takes in a big lungful.

“You have to love that smell.”

As discreetly as I can, I pull my shirt over my nose.

It takes some finagling, during which I mostly stand and try not to bump into any wet paintings, but he sets up a blank canvas and positions me behind it. He gives me a brief lesson on mixing colors and how to properly hold the brush.

“What should I paint?” I ask, once I’m standing with palette in one hand and brush in the other.

“Whatever you want,” he replies, smiling.

I paint Chimera. I paint Alexander. I paint Dracula.

None of them are even a little bit good, or recognizable. All I’m doing is wasting canvas and paint, but Dad doesn’t seem bothered. He adds finishing touches to his own paintings on the other side of the studio and doesn’t interrupt me or keep track of how many times I set up a different canvas sheet.

After a few hours, I feel more grounded than I have in weeks. Dad suggests a break, which I readily consent to. This is fun, but I have to go to the bathroom and might be a little high off paint fumes. He nods his approval at my paintings, but otherwise doesn’t comment.

“Thanks, Dad,” I say as we adjust to the sunlight outside. I lift my chin so I can look in his eyes. We don’t do it a lot, the eye contact thing. “Really. It helped.”

He shrugs, trying to hide how pleased he is. “It always helps me.”

. . . . . . .

When I go to bed that night, I’m hoping Alexander decided to let me kiss him. I want to live, and I’d like to do it without narcolepsy, too.