“What if I was hurt or something?” she asks.
“You’re not, are you?” I fling, as I carry on walking.
“I might have been,” she retorts. “One of these days I just might be in real trouble and because you have chosen to not acknowledge me in your life, I could be hurt or even killed. How would you feel then?”
I stop and turn to look at her. “Who’s going to dare drive a stake through your cold heart?”
“Is that supposed to be funny?” she asks, a tinge of irritation coloring her voice.
I sigh. “What do you want, Isadora?’
“When are you going to stop punishing all of us?”
“Never,” I say bitterly.
She lifts her dog into her arms and stands. She is tall and willowy and dressed in a skintight dress. There can’t be a man alive who can resist my sister. More’s the pity because she will drop kick every single one of their hearts into oblivion as soon as she gets bored. She comes forward, her face pleading. “Look, I didn’t even do anything.”
“But you knew about it.” My voice is cold and distant.
“Yes, I knew about it, but I didn’t realize how important it was to you.”
“It?” I rage, as the black anger returns to fill my chest.
She shakes her head in exasperation. “Stop being so fucking sensitive, I was not calling her an it. I was referring to the situation.” She takes a deep breath. “I didn’t realize how important she was to you. I’m sorry. I made a mistake. Have you never made a mistake in your life?”
I stare at her bitterly. “Yes, I have made many, many mistakes in my life. The biggest was trusting my own family.”
“For fucks sake we are your family, Rocco. We made a mistake. A big mistake, but you have to understand that they did it because they love you and she was going to destroy you. At some point you’re going to have to forgive them… us. We’re your blood.”
I lift my head. My voice is cold and final. “Perhaps, at some point, but not yet.”
Her eyes fill with disappointment.
I turn and leave her.
Chapter 5
Autumn
After my phone call ends I find it impossible to sleep so I unpack my easel and paints, put out a primed canvas, and start to paint. My strokes are not calm and considered, careful of how much paint I use, but frenzied, rushed, and unusually extravagant. I squeeze out nearly half a jumbo tube of white paint and dash it onto the canvas.
I don’t even take a break to step back to consider my next move. The brush seems to move on its own accord. It doesn’t even feel as if it is me painting. It is as if I am possessed. This is not even in my usual style. The strokes are short and fat with paint.
I don’t know how long I paint, but when I finish my hand feels stiff from holding the brush so long.
I stand back and stare at my painting with some shock. It is hard to believe I painted this scene. It is of two people in the throes of intense passion. The woman’s neck is so unnaturally stretched and thrown back it looks as if she must be in terrible agony, but the expression on her face is that of ecstasy. Her legs are wide open. The man’s face cannot be seen, but he is blond. His back is broad and powerful, and he dominates her completely as he fucks her hard. Their joining is such that there is no way to tear them apart. Their primitive bodies bled into each other until they seem to be one four-legged feral beast.
I move forward and sign my work. Even my signature has a slightly different flourish to it.
I open the top cupboard, pull out a bottle of Vodka and take a mouthful straight from the bottle. Then I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I feel strangely exhilarated. I know without anyone telling me that I turned the corner as an artist. I have painted my best work so far. I take another mouthful. The neat alcohol goes straight to my head. I stick my headphones on and the throb of dance music fills my head. I take another swig of Vodka and start to dance.
I’m behaving totally out of character, but it feels great. It feels amazing to be drinking and dancing on my own while everyone else is asleep. Then, as suddenly as the euphoria had come it is gone. I feel sleepy and utterly exhausted. Dawn is already in the sky.
I fall into bed and do not wake up until the alarm rings at nine.
With a groan, my hand flings out to stop the sound. My head is throbbing slightly. Then I remember. Rocco Rossetti. I shoot out of bed and rush to my painting. Wow! In the bright morning light, it is breathtaking. I approach it with awe. Standing three feet away from it I just stare at it. There is not a stroke on it I’d change. I’m hardly able to believe I created such a complete piece of art in one session.