Ruin (Rhodes #1) by Rina Kent

                             What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I paint the usual? Horses. Landscapes. Anything normal. Why do I keep sinking in the forbidden territory?

                             My delinquent painting habits became worse since that night a week ago. After I met that stranger in the alley, none of my paintings can be categorised as normal. As if being triggered, all what my fingers orchestrate are patches of darkness.

                             The brush falls from my trembling hand, leaving a black splash on the ground. The university’s art studio seems to close in on me. The scent of oil paint constricts my throat. I calm my breathing in order to pick up the brush.

                             I retrieve Turpentine from the shelves and clean the brush and the floor before wiping the painting equipment with pages from a newspaper.

                             My fingers itch to spill the bottle of Turpentine on the canvas. To erase the terrifying side of me.

                             “That’s brilliant, Mae.”

                             My head cranes to Professor Turell. He walks through other students’ work-shopped paintings before stopping by my side. His eyes, surrounded by wrinkles, travel the length of my ‘mythical creature’ as his hand strokes his short beard.

                             “Although you’ve done dark pieces before, this must be the grittiest amongst them all.” His soft blue eyes fixate me. “What’s the inspiration?”

                             A real life experience in a dark alley.

                             I can’t say that. Even admitting it to myself is hard. “My style is more subconscious, so I don’t know. Probably a horror film.”

                             “Wonderful.” His lips curve into a warm smile. “Let’s exhibit this.”

                             “What?”

                             “The art school’s exhibition’s in a week. Your painting deserves to be in the gallery.”

                             “Thank you for the opportunity, Professor.” I wipe my hand on my apron, trying to mask the tension in my limbs. “But can I pass this time?”

                             Showing this unhinged side of me to the world would break me apart. I’m barely trying to cope with it and understand I have such a terrifying facet.

                             Professor Turrell frowns, and a strand of grey hair falls on his forehead. “Your skills and perseverance got you thus far, why would you want to hide them?”

                             “I...” am terrified that part will eventually take hold of me and I won’t find a way out.

                             “I taught you to have more faith in your skills. You’re usually confident, what happened?” He faces me. “You don’t actually plan to wander around little school exhibitions, do you? There are endless contests waiting for you. The natural talent you have is something many dream to have.”

                             “I want to work more on my technique and...” my gaze trails to the mythical creature of my nightmares, “the subject material.”

                             “Art can’t be forced, Mae.” He stares at the canvas, then at my smudged hands. “What you have is something brilliant. If you fight what your hand wants to paint, you can lose your muse forever. And losing one’s muse is every artist’s nightmare.”