New Artemis

Artemis

By: Chase L. Currie

Edited By Leanna King

            Once upon a time...

            I was living in downtown Concord right off Main Street. I had a small studio space in a tiny two-story building that could barely hold itself together. The floors were old, almost ancient, and every time you walked on them they cried out in pain. With every step 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 lingering in the air. It seemed no one other than an artist would rent out the rooms.

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

            There had to have been many different artists in that place. I could feel them in the walls, all their paintings talking to me at once. I guess that's why I named the studio The Whispering Walls. I spent many nights there, alone, painting until the sun rose.

            Most days… well, nights… I didn't even leave. I never saw a soul. I would sleep all day, waking 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 voices of souls long past from this studio, and my paintings telling me how to make them perfect.

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

            One night, I found myself standing around a little longer than 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 brightly lit gas station sign. I was more or less trying to burn my eyes out than see any stars at that point in time. Every now and then a crack-head would wander up, asking me for drugs or to bum a smoke and light. I would just wave them away. Luckily for me they either 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 would be time for me to move on. That was normal for me. I would paint ten or so paintings in a studio space, find a new one, name it, and start a new set of work. I always felt paintings, pens, paint brushes, and even studios were like people. They each were different and they each had stories to be told. The Whispering Walls was close to finishing its story, so I had no need to head back just yet. I had time.

             As I stood there, out of the coroner of my eye, a small thin girl rushed into the gas station. I turned my head, my eyes following her. It was not the blue and green hair, nor the tattoo running from her bottom lip to her chin, that forced me to look. It was blood running down her nose and lip. All that came to mind was...damn, is there a Fight Club around here?

            She quickly made it to the back of the gas station, grabbed a bottle of cheap beer, rushed to pay the clerk, 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 as she downed 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 shoot my eyes somewhere else. I stood there, unsure of what to do. Should I leave? Should I stay? Should I say something, or wait until she says something? When I finally decided to ask for her name, she turned to me.

            “You got a smoke I can bum?” she asked.

            “Sure do,” I replied, pulling out the pack. I opened the box only to find it was empty. I looked back up at her.

            “Well...” I start to say as I stepped 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 out with people or even by myself, I would keep at least two cigarettes for an occasion just like this. I never knew if I was going to meet someone, but I hadn't been out and about in a long time. I must have smoked my whole pack before I knew it. I threw the money down on the counter and stepped back out, giving her the long white death stick and lighting it for her.

            “Thanks,” she said between drags, “I'm Artemis.”

            “Is that your real name?” I chuckled.

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

            “Sweet,” I said, halfway joking. Then I couldn't help but ask, “Who has been using your face as a punching bag?”

            I had been in a few fights here and there, enough to know what it looks like when you’ve been punched around. Her pale skin hadn't turned black and blue yet but it would. The hits were fresh, only a few minutes old at best.

            “My stupid-ass boyfriend,” she said, looking away. I guess she wasn't happy I could tell. “He gets drunk and sometimes he goes 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 seemed a little different. It was mostly because of her bloody knuckles. It looked like she gave a beating as good as the one 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 to look for that is.

            “How bad did you leave him?” I asked.

            She grinned a little, her busted lip cracking from the smile. She stopped from the pain and said, “He'll remember the fight in the morning. I beat his ass more than he beat mine.” 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. It’s that whole ‘being a 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 of us.”

            “You're that artist who lives at the other end of main, right?” she asked, looking at my sleeves. It was easy to tell — there was wet and dry paint all over my sleeves. I used them as rags, which was why I always wore coats that fell over my hands. It made it easier to wipe off unwanted paint. I didn’t think people knew who I was. Like I said before, I didn't get out much.

            “Yeah, I am,” I told her, “you’ve heard of me?” My right eyebrow rose in a question.

            “A little here and there,” she explained, “mostly from the crack-heads. Those guys think you're crazy.”

            “You hang out with crack-heads?”

            “Not really, but 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 it hit me: either this girl was so bad-ass that crack-heads would not mess with her, or the crack-heads in this town were really nice. I was going to for the latter.

            “Hey,” she yelled out of excitement, “can I see some of your paintings?”

            Damn, ran to the front of my brain, screaming at me. I was sure it showed through my eyes as well. I knew that she was going to ask that, they always do. There was a part of me that kind of hoped that she wouldn't ask, that she would be different. I didn't like showing people my new work. They always said how good it was or how cool it looked, but never wanted to buy it. I also never really liked people coming to my studio. It was like opening the door to your mind and saying, come on in and tell me what you think. I hated it, but the words just poured out of my mouth.

            “Sure, we can go right now.”

            I mean, she was 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 herself. She was from somewhere in Europe, her family moved 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 asked about me and I told her I had lived here all my life and I always wanted to be an artist.

            “Yeah, I love art,” she said.

            I couldn't help but smile. I loved it when people were interested in paintings. I hoped she would be into mine.

            “What about this guy you're going out with?” I asked, but she didn't want to talk about it.

            We made it to my studio, climbing up to my work space. I opened the door for her. She stepped in, looking at the giant painting hanging on my wall. I was painting female models onto the back ground of some abstract work I did a long time ago. The paintings looked a lot like Mel McCuddin — they were in the in the spirit of him after all, pulling the human form 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 just studying them, lost in the daze of color. I didn't say anything as I moved around her, pulled up two chairs, and sat down in one of them. She sat down beside me, still looking up at the paintings; some of them 4x6 feet, others no larger than a piece of paper, but all of them painted on wood.

            She looked over at the two that only had the backgrounds done, but not anyone in them.

            She asked, “Who are you planning on painting on those?”

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

            “I can't wait to see it,” she said, turning back around.

            I didn't notice at first, but the whole time we walked home she slowly lost that hard shell that covered the outside of her body. She stopped being a punk and started being herself. She almost seemed 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. She just had a hard time living a life that showed it. She knew of all the wrong things she did, and kept doing, but still believed. She still believed He was up there, looking down, forgiving her every time she asked for it. She sinned a lot but she tried not to. I related to that more than I liked to admit. She knew the guy she with was damaging her faith more than anything but she still stayed with him for reasons I could not understand. She never told me why. I asked but she wouldn't talk about.

            The sun came up and she freaked out a little. She hadn’t meant to stay out so long. She jumped to her feet, gave me a hug, rushed down stairs, and said she'd come back sometime soon.

            “You’re always welcome here,” I told her.

            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 that wasn't working either. She came into my world, changed it, and now the walls wouldn't talk 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 that came to my mind was her face.

            I gave up after a while. I only went to the gas station for smokes and beer. I didn't stand outside, look up, or wait. I kept telling myself it was nice to meet someone new, but people come and go. 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 opened the door to climb the steps to get to my studio and there she was, sitting, crying. I slowly sat down beside her and she fell into my chest. Her left eye was black and there were markings around her neck in the shape of hands. I 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.

            “This is too far. He just came in the house, mad, and started beating on me. I don't even know why,” she said.

            “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. She didn't seem like someone who liked dealing with police, but I did take some photos of the markings and the black eye in case she ever did go to the sheriff. She made herself at home in my studio. It took a couple of days for her to open up about anything or to let me sleep in my own bed. Most of the time I slept on the floor outside the bedroom or in a chair. I didn't mind too much. It gave me time to think about what I wanted to paint on the last wood panels.

            Somewhere around day three she really opened up. She didn't walk down to the gas station with me, but when I got back she was happy. She had music playing as loud as it would go, dancing around. She was trying to forget about all the pain, I guess. I came in, she grabbed me, and the next thing I knew I was dancing with her. After about an hour, when our bodies couldn't take it anymore, she asked 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 asked 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. Then she lied across my 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 have someone to talk to. 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 other guy. So I tried to make her laugh as much as I could.

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

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

            “Was is always like that?”

            “Mostly,” she explained, “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 into 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. “You’re great, and this guy seems like an asshole in the first place.”

            “I'm not that great,” she smiled, “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 started 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 shook her head no. She hadn't been out of the studio the whole time she had been there. 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’s what I thought anyways.

            It took about thirty minutes before I got back to my studio but I already knew something was wrong. I could see from the lights there were two people inside. God, I hoped it was one of my 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 turned to face me. He was about my size, had a long black braid, and cold black eyes. He stood there like a member of the Hell’s Angels and more than likely was one. He pointed at me, yelling at me to fuck off, he didn't know how hard I could hit. My fist smashed right into his jaw. The hit threw him off his feet for a moment, but he came back up, ready to fight. We danced around the studio, throwing punch after punch. All those years I boxed 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 paint brush in anger. Sadly for him, I liked to fight and I liked to win.

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

            “Like Hell we are!” he screamed 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 it. I turned to face her but her eyes said it all. He was right, she was his and there was nothing I could do about it. There something going on here I didn't understand. She headed for the door, her head lowered, but I stopped her. I faced the man.

            “She’s going nowhere.”

            “Boy,” he said, reaching in his jacket, “you have no idea what you are dealing with.”

            He pulled out a gun. She started to yell but I wasn't backing down. I was just praying he didn't shoot me. He pulled the hammer back and dropped it, the sound louder than the gunshot itself. I knew it, I was dead, and 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 was no a halo. The light burned so bright it made me look away to see Matt with his horns, his black wings and red skin. He was a demon, and what a monster he was. She stepped between us, stopping the bullet from killing me, but the heat from the light was too 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 hadn't seen her.

            I spent weeks looking for her, waiting for her to come back, but in the end all I had was the paintings I made of her. I sat there one night looking at them, fighting back the tears, when I noticed a little piece of paper. There was a letter under one of them. All it said was...

            Thank you.