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xymonephoebe · 2 years ago

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diesel was desire (we were playing with fire)

genre: romance, angst

language: english, filipino

if i’m on fire, you’ll be made of ashes too. alternatively—in which love isn’t reason enough for sinclair to stay.

CHAPTER 1: My Tears Ricochet

And if I'm on fire, you'll be made of ashes too...

I watch as the vinyl goes round and round in my dusty old record player. It was the first thing I bought for myself, with the money I got from my first painting. #127, acrylics on canvas. Staring at the swirl colors on the vinyl label gives me a migraine, but the melody lulls me back into forgetting the thumping pain in my head.

I checked my wristwatch. 8:03 pm. I figured it was time for me to stand up and eat. It is my last night here in the City of Lights. It would be a shame to leave without a final meal. But then again, after months of eating the same thing over and over again. In the same stuffy hall, with the same intricate dinner plates, using the same set of numerous forks and spoons. It has become too boring and repetitive.

I wanted this—no, I yearned for this.

I yearned for the dizzying lights not knowing how blinding they could get.

I opened the window to see the view of the Eiffel Tower, one last time. It’s funny. I sit here and marvel at the twinkling 20,000 light bulbs, in this vast flat I own, surrounded by all my trinkets and canvas. Yet, it feels so empty.

I feel so empty.

My bed is incredibly small, I had this custom done, the moment I set foot in Paris. if I turn sideways the wrong way, I will surely fall face flat on the floor. With a bed as tiny as this, I should be feeling cramped up. But why does it still feel empty?

‘Cause I loved you, I swear I loved you 'til my dying day...

“Never mind, I’ll just eat on the plane.” I convinced myself before tugging at my duvet covers.

…

“Should I book myself a flight, Miss Sinclair?”

“No, it’s okay.” I turned her down. After all, it was my fault that the cheque was still in my possession. “I’ll just hand it to them directly.”

To be fair, I wasn’t expecting my last painting to be sold in less than a minute, on live TV no less.

“Thank you for gracing us with your presence Miss Sinclair.” She smiled at me, showing her perfect set of pearly whites.

I tried to mimic her smile, “The pleasure is all mine.”

“I take it, this is your first public appearance. Five years and you never once showed your face. What made you decide to do so, today?” She continued.

“I’m here to announce my retirement, actually.” I laughed nervously. Silence enveloped the studio. Everyone was taken aback by my statement. The host in front of me was incredibly stunned, so much so that I started sweating. My hands felt clammy, and my throat dry.

All eyes were on me. Was I doing the right thing by announcing my retirement here? Should I have just asked my assistant to draft a statement, and have it sent to publications?

She cleared her throat before starting, “Sorry, sorry; I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Would you like to elaborate on your… early retirement? Most acclaimed artists such as Banksy continue their art until their forties.” She gestured for me to start explaining.

“It’s true. I’m still in my mid-twenties yet here I am, announcing my departure to the entire world, not even five seconds after, well, finally showing my face—”

“—It’s a great face, by the way!” She cracked a joke to lighten up the mood.

“Thanks, it’s my mom’s.”

“Going back.” I popped the joints on my left hand to ease my nerves. “I am extremely grateful to everyone who supported me all throughout my artistic journey, but I think, this is it…I’ve reached the end.”

I took a deep breath before continuing, “There are days when I just stand up in front of my canvas for hours. And…I see my hands. I see the paintbrush I’m holding.” I held up my left hand to gesticulate. “And I realize, I have nothing to paint anymore.”

I smiled bitterly. “I feel like I owe it to everyone to at least explain, but the thing is, I can’t. I can’t rack up my brain and find words to verbalize this…feeling. I finally have nothing to paint anymore.”

“Anyway!” I quickly changed the subject. Melancholy doesn’t suit me well. “I brought my last piece with me.” I stood up and walked to the easel at the end of the couch. I lifted the white fabric covering the canvas.

“Achilles’ Heel.” She read the words written below. “ This is the first time you’ve named a masterpiece of yours. You’ve always given them numeric instead, is there any reason for doing so?”

“I suppose it just felt right at the moment.” I shrugged. Of course, I wasn’t going to tell them that this was a painting of my ex.

“Is this up for sale?”

“Mhmm.” I nodded my head. “Can we bid this on live?” I asked her.

“I don’t see why we can’t.”

I thanked her. “Splendid! If the viewers are interested in this piece, please call the phone numbers flashing on your screen and we will get in touch with you.”

Someone signaled at her to end the segment. “We’ll be right back after an amazing performance from your favorite up-and-coming boyband: Purple Hyacinth!”

As soon as the flashing lights dimmed, I turned to her. She gave me a warm smile as to reassure me that everything will be all right.

“I’ve always been a big fan of yours! I’ve never had the chance to own one of your coveted paintings.”

“Oh, I almost forgot!” I rummaged through my bag. “Here.” I handed her an envelope. “I’m sorry, I know it’s not my best. I painted these flowers using watercolor on my way here.” Before she could speak to thank me, a young gentleman approached us.

“My client is interested in Achilles’ Heel. He asked me to give you this.” He handed me a piece of paper. Upon looking closely, I realized it was a cheque.

“I’m sorry, transactions like these are handled solely by my assistant.” I tried giving it to him back but he was adamant.

“I apologize Miss Sinclair, but I’m on strict orders to not come back unless you’ve graciously accepted his payment yourself.”

“I’m sorry, I really can’t take this—” Wow. That’s a lot of zeroes.

“Is there a mistake? I think he misplaced the dot.” But before I can hand him back the cheque, the mysterious man was nowhere to be seen.

“Miss Sinclair? Miss Sinclair!” A female voice on my mobile phone brought me back to reality.

“Sorry, I spaced out. You were saying?”

She gave me a spiel on the things I needed to accomplish after settling home. She also reminded me to take care of myself and to give her a call, in case something happens to me.

“Stop worrying about me and enjoy this well-deserved vacation of yours! Aren’t you and Sean supposed to go to Bali for your honeymoon?”

“Yes but,” before she could even start, I interrupted her. “But what? Besides, you’ve already finished all the paperwork on the transferring of rights for Achilles’ Heel. It’s not like you have anything left to sell for a retired artist such as myself.” I laughed.

She pouted. “If I list your used paintbrushes on eBay will you go back home?”

“I’ll be back soon.” I lied through my teeth.

“When? You only book a one-way flight—” I ended the call.

I am home. I think. I’d like to believe.

I opened my purse to slip back the passport in my hand when I saw the cheque from last night. I took it out to assess it carefully. Who the hell pays this much for a single painting?! I could retire alone from this paper. I scoffed. May mga tao talagang walang mapaglagyan ng pera.

My eyes widened when I saw the signature at the bottom.

Achilles Ibarra Sauveterre.

And I can go anywhere I want,

Anywhere I want just not home…

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