Artemis

Artemis

Draft_6

By: Chase L. Currie

It was late...

I was living in downtown Concord right off Main Street, I had a small studio space in a tiny two-story building barely holding of together. The floors were old, almost ancient, and every time you walked on them they cried out in pain. Every step you took you were sure your foot would go right through but it the never did. Back then old buildings were built to last and with old buildings came cheap rent. The space was also cheapened by the smell of oil paint and lingered in the air. It seems no one else other than an artists would rent out the rooms.

I found out later there were several other artists who painted in the same space. You knew it not only from the smell, but also from the spots of color you are find on the walls. The hard dry paint against the harsh white. Sometime you find the right hue of Crimson leading you to believe it was a crusty dried blood stain, or dark brown spot making you think it was a bug hanging on the corner of the wall. I knew all the spots of dry paint in that haven of mine, for I spent hours sitting in that place painted my soul away.

There had to been many different artist in that place. I could feel them in the walls, all their paintings talking to me, all at once. I guess that's why I called that studio, “The Whispering Walls.” And I spent many nights there, alone, painting until the sun came up.

Most days, or well nights, I didn't even leave. I never saw a soul. I would sleep all day, wake up long after all my friends got off work and then I would get to work myself. In the Whispering Walls the only friends I had were the talking voices of souls long past from this studio and my paintings telling me how to make them perfect.

However, when the talking or painting got too much and I need time outside, I would walk down to the gas station, buy some smokes, a beer or two and then head back. The gas station was on the other side of Main Street, so it was a good ten minute walk, just enough time for me to miss my work.

One night, I found myself standing around a little longer then normal outside the gas station, looking up at the sky trying to see stars but I couldn't see anything. It was hard to see anything over the bright sign the gas station had lit up. So I was more or less trying to burn my eyes out then see any stars at that point in time. Every now and then a crackhead would wonder up to me and asks me for some drugs or to bum a smoke and light. I would just wave them away. Lucky for me they thought I was crazier than them or they knew I was a poor, poor artist.

I must have been out there for two hours, just killing time. I wasn't ready to head back to my studio yet. I was sure I was almost done with all the work I could do in there, and soon it was going to be time for me to move on. There was the normal thing for me to do. I would paint ten or so paintings in a studio, find a new one, name it and start a new set of work. I always felt paintings, pens, paint brushes, and even the studios were like people. They each were different and they each had stories to be told and the Whispering Walls were close to finishing their story. So I had no need to had back just yet.

As I was standing there, out of the coroner of my eye, a small thin girl rushed into the gas station. My eyes turn my head following her, it wasn't the blue and green hair or the tattoo running from her bottom lip to the her chin, it was blood running down her nose and lip, that force me to look. All that came to my mind was...damn, there's a Fight Club around here?

She quickly made it to the back of the gas station, grabbing a bottle of cheap beer, rushing up to the clerk, paid and ended up standing beside me.

She was tiny, very, very tiny. Her head barely made it up to my shoulders and her face could easily fit into my hand. We stood there for a moment, while she started to down the beer, not saying a word. I would look over every now and then at her, and when she looked back at me I would just shoot my eyes somewhere else. I stood there not sure what to do; should I leave? Should I stay? Should I say something or wait until she says something. Finally, when I was going to ask her what her name was, she turn to me asking, “You got a smoke I can bum?”

“Sure do,” I replied, pulling out the pack, opening the box seeing that it was empty, looking back up at her. “Well...” I start to say stepping away, “give me a second I will have one for you.” I rushed back into the gas station. Stupid, stupid, I kept telling myself. Normally, when am out with people or by myself, I would keep at least tow cigarette for an occasion just like this. I never knew if I was going to meet someone being out and about, but I haven't been out and about in along time. I must have smoke my whole pack before I knew it. So I thrown the money down and step back out, giving her the long white death stick and lighting it for her.

“Thanks,” she say, “I'm Artemis.”

“Is that your real name?” I chuckled.

“Yeah,” she replies, taking a gulp of her beer, “My father is Zeus and am one of the Greek Goddesses.”

“Sweet,” I said half way joking, then I couldn't help but asks, “Who been using your face as a punching bag?” I been in a few fights here in there, enough to know what it looks like when you been punch around. Her pale skin hasn't turn black and blue yet but it will. The hits were fresh only happen a couple of minutes ago, at best.

“My stupid ass boyfriend,” she says, looking away. I guess she wasn't happy that I could tell. “He gets drunk and sometimes he goes off off the handle, nothing I can't take.”

I don't like seeing a girl in a tight spot when it comes to some asshole beating up on her, but Artemis seems a little different. Mostly, because I saw her bloody knuckles. It looked like she gave as good as she got. She tried to hide them but it didn't work, between the smoke and the bottle, it was easy to see. If you knew what you were looking for that is. “How bad did you leave him?” I asked.

She grin a little, her lips cracking up from the smile, so she stop from the pain and said, “He'll remember the fight in the morning. I beat his ass more than he beat mine.” Then she looked me dead in the eyes. I was smiling, I was happy to know she showed him and I was more or less wondering why I haven't seen her here before. But she asked, almost out of shock I guess, “Why do you care?”

“I don't know,” I said, lighting up another smoke, “I guess it's the way my father raised me. That hold being an Southern gentleman thing and what not. I just don't like the idea of some guy beating up a girl, is all.”

“Southern gentleman,” she repeated, “I was told they were all dead.”

“Not all.”

“You're that artist who lives at the other end of main, right?” She asks, looking at my sleeves. It was easy to tell, there was wet and dry paint all over my sleeves. I use them as rags that's why I always wear coats that fall over my hands. It makes it easier to wipe off unwanted him and paint but I didn’t think people knew who I was. Like I said before I didn't come out much.

“Yeah I am,” I tell her, “you heard about me?” Rising that right eyebrow up in a question mark,

“A little here and there,” she explains, “mostly from the crackheads, those guys think you'll crazy.”

“You hang out with crackheads?”

“Not really, sometimes they hang out here” she said looking around, hoping there would be one on the side of the building, but there wasn’t.”Or they talk to me when I head home for the night.” Right then and there is when it hit me, either this girl was so bad-ass that crackheads would not mess with her or the crackheads in this town were really nice. I was going to for the latter. “Hey,” she yells out of excitement, “can I see some of your paintings?”

Damn, ran to the front of my brain, yelling at me. I was sure the yelling was coming through my eyes as well. I knew that she was going to asks that, they always do. There was a part of me that kind of hoped she wouldn't have making her a little different. I don't every really like showing people my new work. They always said how good it is or how cool it looks, but never want to buy it. I also never really like people coming over to my studio. It's kind of like opening the door to your mind and saying come on and tell me what you think...I hate it but the words just came out of my mouth, “Sure, we can go right now.”

I mean, she is beautiful and who doesn't like having a beautiful girl inside your head?

We headed back to the studio as she told me a little about her self. She was from somewhere in Europe, her family moved over here when she was young. They had a lot of money back in Europe but lost it all. She didn't really tell me how. Then she asks about myself and I told her I live here all my life and I've always wanted to be an artist. That is when she said, “Yeah, I love art.” I couldn't help but smile. I love it when people are into paintings. Hopefully she'll be in to mine.

“What about this guy you're going with?” I asked her, but she didn't want to talk about it. We it made to my studio, climb up to my work space and I open the door for her. She stepped in looking at the giant painting, hanging on my walls. I was painting some female models onto the back grounds of some abstract work I did along time ago. The paintings looked a lot like Mel McCuddin, they were in the in the spirit of him after all, pulling the human from out of the colors of the abstract painting behind it. It was coming out well and she loved them. She stood there for a good two minutes or so just looking at them, studying or lost in the daze of the color. I didn't say anything I just moved around her, pulled up a chair and sat down beside her. I also pulled up a chair for her. She sat down looking up at the paintings; some of them 4x6 feet tall, others the size of a piece of paper but all of them painted on wood.

She looked over at the two that just had the backgrounds done and not anyone in them and asked, “Who are you planning on painting on those?”

“I don't really know yet,” I said back, standing up and heading for a stack of papers. She followed me, I started looking through the stack, they were some ink drawings I did of some models awhile back. “Not sure which one I like.” She stood by side me looking at them as well. “But I will figure it out it out.”

“I can't wait to see it,” she said turning back around. I didn't notice at first, the whole time we walked home, she slowly lost that hard shell that cover the outside of her body. She stop being a punk and started being herself. She almost seem happier among my paintings, almost like she was dancing with them.

We stay up all night talking about everything; God, life, love and Death. She was a deep believer of God and had so much faith but just had a hard time living a life that showed it. She knew of all the wrong things she did and keeps doing but she still believes. She still believes he's up there, looking down, forgiving her every time she asked for it. She might sin but she tries not too. I could relate more than I would like to admit. She knew the guy she with was damaging her faith more than anything but she still stay with him for reasons I never could understand. She never told why, I asked but she wouldn't talk about.

The sun was coming out, she freaked out a little, didn't mean to stay out this long. She jump to her feet, rushing down stairs, gave me a hug and said she'll come back sometime soon. I told her, “Your always welcome here.”

A week passed and she didn't come back. I tried my hardest to focus on my work but it wasn't working, all I could think about was Artemis. Every night I went to the gas station, stood outside for a couple of hours waiting for her to show up, but she never did. I tried to paint but it wasn't working either. She came into my world, changed it and now the walls weren't talking to me anymore. I spent hours sitting in front of my paintings, trying to think of who I was going to put in them but the only thing coming to my mind was her face.

I gave up after a while; I only went to the gas station for smokes and beers. I didn't really stand outside, looking up or waiting. Kept telling myself it was nice to meet some one new but people come and go, and that is how life is. There was no need to get hung up on someone you barely knew, that's what I kept telling myself anyways. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t.

One night when I was heading back home, I open the door to climb the steps to get to my studio and there she was, sitting, crying. I slowly sat down beside her, she fell into my chest, her left eye was black and there was marking around her neck in the shape of hands. I just put my arm around her, as she said she was done with him. He got more than drunk, he started doing harder stuff and he was getting more out of control. She showed me the marks around her neck, telling me “This is too far. He just came in the house mad and started beating on me. I don't even know why.”

“It doesn't matter why,” I replied, “you don't need to go back to him. You can stay here.” I couldn't let her go back and I knew calling the cops wouldn't help either. She didn't seem like someone who like dealing with police, but I did take some pictures of the markings and the black eye. Just in case she every did go to the sheriff but I doubt it would happen. She made her self at home in my studio. It took a couple of days for her to open up about thing or to let me sleep in my own bed. Most the time I was sleeping outside of the bedroom on the floor or in a chair. I didn't mind it too much, gave me time to think about what I wanted to paint on the lasts wood panels.

Somewhere around day three is when she really opened up. She didn't walk down to the gas station with me but when I got back she was happy. She has some music playing as loud as it would go, dancing around, trying to forget about all the pain, I guess. I came in, she grab me and the next thing I knew I was dancing with her. After about an hour of that and when our bodies couldn't take it anymore she ask me something. “Would you paint me?”

“I—I—uhhh,” start to say looking at all the other works. They were all nudes and I didn't feel right asking her to take off her clothes. I didn't know what to say but she said it for me. She said it was alright and stepped into my room, then came out in the nude and then ask me, “What pose do you want me in?”

It was a good question and we tried out a few different poses, but nothing was really working. Not until she laid across the bed and all I could think about was that Bob Dylan song, “Lay Lady Lay”. Not that my bed was brass or anything but the colors in the painting remind me of a brass bed. So it worked and that was it.

I didn't start painting the picture right away. I was kind of waiting for her to leave but after two weeks, I figured that wasn't going to happen anytime soon. I didn't really mind. Believe it or not it was nice to wake with someone in your bed. It was nice to fix a dinner for two and to have someone to talk too. It took away from my work but it was something I needed for a little while.

Our favorite spot was on top of the roof, we would sit up there smoking, joking, and drinking. We stayed up there all night most the time. She loved to laugh, who doesn't I know, but she really loved it. I had a feeling she didn't get to laugh a lot with the the other guy. So I tried to make her laugh as much as I could.

“You going to go back to him?” I had to know. I had to know because my heart was feeling something I didn't want it too. I was starting to fall for her but if I was just someone to pass the time with then it was not going worth it. So I had to know.

“No,” she quickly said, “I'm done with him.”

“Was is always like that?”

“Mostly,” she explain, “I know, what you are thinking. I knew what I was getting myself into but...the only way you can save someone from the darkness is to go in the dark with them. I thought for sure I could help him pull himself out the pit, but as we can see that didn't work.”

“I don't think it was your fault,” I told her, “Your great and this guy seems like an asshole in the first place.”

“I'm not that great,” she smiles, “but I'm glad you think so.” She moved closer and the kiss was perfect. It felt right. I knew she felt safe with me. I felt safe with her. We stayed up there until the sun came up and went to bed. We slept all day and I woke up with a smile on my face that morning. I start to work and spent hours doing so. She just sat behind me watching me pull her face and body out of the gold and purple background. I was so lost in the painting I forgot to eat but she didn't. She whispered in my ear, “It's time to get some food.”

“Yeah, I guess you're right.” I told her heading for the door, “I'll go down to the pizza place and gets us a pie. You want to come?” She nod no. She hasn't been out of the studio the whole time she has been here. I didn't give it much thought. I just guess it was because the walls made her feel safe and her boyfriend didn't know about me. That what I was thinking anyways. It took about half hours before I got back to my studio but I already knew something was wrong. I could see from the lights there were two people in my studio. God, I hoped it was one of my old friends.

I ran up the stairs, throwing the door open to find a man standing over Artemis. She was on the ground holding her face. The man turn to face me. He was about my size, had a long black bread and cold black eyes. He stood there like a member of the Hell Angels and more than likely was one. He pointed at me, yelling me to fuck off, but I don't think he knew how hard I could hit. My fist smashed right into his jaw. The hit thrown him off his feet for a moment, and then he came back up, ready to fight. We danced around the studio, throwing punch after punch. All those years I box with my brothers and friends were finally paying off. Matt, this asshole, didn't know what he was walking into. He thought I was some weak artist who wouldn't lift a brush paint in angry. Sadly, for him like to fight and I like to win.

I knocked him out the door, as Artemis jump to her feet, screaming, “It's over! We are done!”

“Like Hell we are,” he screams back, letting the blood run down his nose, “your father gave you to me, you are mine, remember the deal!”

The shock on my face was unbelievable. Artemis was given to this man by her father, how fucked up is that, I couldn't believe it, I wouldn't believe. I turn to face her but her eyes said it all. He was right, she was his and there was nothing I could do about that. There something going on here I didn't understand. She headed for the door, her head lower, but I stopped her, face this man and told him, “She going no where.”

“Boy,” he said, reaching in his jacket, “you have no idea what you are dealing with.” And with he pulled a gun out. She started to yell but I wasn't backing down. I was just praying he didn't shoot me. He pull the hammer back and drop it, the sounds was louder than the gun shot itself. I knew it, I was dead and then there was going to be the white light everyone talks about . . .

But the light wasn't the same, it was coming from Artemis, not some tunnel leading to Heaven. I looked over to see her wings but there wasn't a halo. The light was burning so I looked away to see Matt with his horns, his black wings and red skin. He was a demon and what a monster he was. She step between us, stopping the bullet from killing me but the heat from the light was so much, I passed out. When I came to I looked for her but she was gone. I even ran to the gas station but they haven't seen her. I spent weeks looking for her, waiting for her to come back, but at the end all I had was the paintings I made of her. I sat there one night looking at them, fighting back the tears and then I notice a little piece of paper. A letter under one of them. All it said was...

“Thank you.”