Ruin (Rhodes #1) by Rina Kent

                             You tell me, demons. The last time I checked, you control that.

                             ‘You are definitely losing it,’ Father says, ‘There’s little to control as of late.’

                             ‘Do you think she painted you? Or us?’ Mother asks.

                             My gaze plunges into the black and white figure of a mythical creature of some sort. He’s faceless. There’s only a grey blur where his features are supposed to be. He stands tall, chaotic dark lines form a ball on his right hand. One black wing springs behind him in full glory while the other hangs loosely by his side. Broken. Scarred. Damaged.

                             The familiarity of what Mae’s hands created springs an unprecedented curiosity. What does it mean? What was going on in her head when she painted this?

                             The fact that an optimistic person such as Mae has this dark defective image in her mind is... fascinating. The contradictions in her persona are alluring. Almost like the splashing of blood from a carved artery.

                             My demons are right. This seems like a version of them. Perhaps this is the exact reason why I refused to let Mae out of my sight ever since I saw this painting in the college’s workshop.

                             “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

                             My neck arches to the woman who stands beside me. Her bloodshot eyes are fixed on the painting, a pale smile curving her lips. Her ivory dress is in complete harmony with the same skin tone she passed down to her daughter.

                             “Yes, it is.” I turn my gaze to the painting. “The artist has admirable imagery.”

                             “She does,” Mae’s mother says, her voice low as if speaking from another dimension. Anguish crosses her gaze as tears stream down her face like an unstoppable oozing of venous blood. She ignores them, seeming lost in the painting.

                             “Oh, I’m sorry.” She sniffs and gives a weak smile before using the tissue in her hand. I can see her struggle. I can see hopelessness and desperation at the bottom of her gaze. But I can’t feel it. I’m not allowed to feel it. That infected unwanted part of myself was cut out a long time ago.

                             Unnatural paleness bleaches the mother’s skin and her lips tremble. Her feet flutter and I clutch her by the arm before she falls.

                             Probably anaemia. Less likely dehydration or malnutrition.

                             “Thank you.” She tries to stand on her own and fails, falling back into my arms. “I’m just a little dizzy.”

                             “Sweetheart.” A male voice calls from our side as I set Mae’s mother to her feet.

                             The middle-aged man envelops her shoulders, brows furrowing. “Are you all right?”

                             “Yes.” She wipes her tears and motions at me. “This kind gentleman helped me.”

                             I took your daughter, lady, and I don’t feel the least guilty about it. I’m anything but kind.

                             “Thank you.” Mae’s father smiles. “My wife isn’t doing well.”

                             “It’s fine,” I say in the most diplomatic voice I can offer. “My pleasure to help.”