Author's Note:

This was my contribution for the Project # 9, Destiny's Eternal Lovers. It's based on a short text of my fellow writer friend, Debra. If you want to, you can check it our at her web-page (see her address in my profile page). Short introduction is still in place: Idea was to write a story of two souls, who are destinied to be together and who are not whole without other. I wrote this.

I want to thank also Jamie A Hughes, who helped me to wrap this thing together. It was hard thing to let someone besides of myself to edit the story, but I'm really thankful to her. At the end I'm very content with this story. So, thank you for million times, Jamie!

Hating Picasso

Saana T.

You know, I might be like one of those typical heroes in romantic novels. People will tell you if you ask. I'm lean and dark. I'm successful, and I’m described as a stonehard businessman. I know what I want, and I get it. For this reason, they might tell you I have no weaknesses either. I would like to think that way, too. But truthfully, I’m not without flaws. I’m a human, after all.

I used to hate art, and I especially disliked cubism. I've never got a grasp on Picasso, who, to me, was nothing but an old and lecherous swine, but I had a nice collection anyway. I donated money to charity and to art galleries. Some might say now, quite correctly even, that I'm a two-faced bastard. I can't help but agree. That's what I'm like. I'm certainly no saint, and I shan't ever be. Yet none saw through me; none understood that all I stood for was a lie. I was never genuine with anyone, but then again, each of us should ask ourselves, who truly is? We all hold masks over our faces, and why would anyone question me when I have no crimes on my record? After all, I'm a well-known and successful businessman and a solid pillar of the society.

She was none of those.

It was one of those useless cocktail parties when I saw her for the first time. She stood in the middle of the room in her simple black cocktail dress. She was small like a doll with a copper red hair. She was laughing loudly at a bit of gossip someone had dropped, and I still quite don't know what about her snared my eye. She was pretty, sure, but I had arrived at the party with a model, a well-dressed package of tight clothing and glossy lipstick, who was catching the eye of every man at the party. I wasn’t struggling to find pleasant company.

The redhead had freckles, and I don't like freckles. They reminded me of a neighbor girl who lived in my building, a spoiled little monster who played piano too loudly and off-the-key during the evenings. One day I'm going to hire someone to strangle her or throw a burning bucket into their flat when there's no one inside and burn the cursed piano down. My mother used to play piano when I was a child. She went to the instrument every time my father had beaten her, and she played nocturnes from Chopin. All in all, the piano equaled pain for me, and anything that reminded me of it, including something as harmless as freckles, was to be avoided at all costs. I think the neighbor brat is aware of that.

But this is not the point. I was telling you about Melissa Stardust, that red haired girl. Isn't it funny how even her name suits her and sounds right? I remember tasting the sound of her name when I heard it for the first time: Melissa Stardust. She was the artist of the evening, and I was in her opening party. As I said, I knew of her, but I’d never had a conversation with her or learned more about her than the arts and leisure section of the newspaper had to offer.

To be truthful, I didn't pay too much attention to her artwork. She was a photographer, and her works were disgusting. I thought they were too full of life. It made me feel awkward, but she was said to be young and talented, a rising star in the art world. So, I suppressed my immense feeling of bête-noir and circled the room a glass of bad wine in my hand.

Just an aside dear reader, please note that if you like good wine, I recommend not to accept wines at opening nights. The wine they offer is cheap and tastes like rotten raisins.

I had lost my escort to another handsome man with plenty of cash to spend and a need for arm candy, soI decided to examine one of the art pieces. After a few moments of contemplation, I heard a voice behind me.

"So? Whattchathinkofmyworks?"

I turned, knowing it was the artist who had spoken to me.

"Excuse me?" I arched my brows up, and she granted me a wide smile. I could see her face was flushed, and I guessed she must have been had a couple glasses too much of that cheap red wine. She puckered her lips slightly and furrowed her brows in concentration before articulating her question again, this time a bit more clearly.

"I asked," she repeated sweetly and melodically, "what do you think?" She waved her hand, and some of the wine spilled down on the floor. "Ups!" She looked apologetic, staring at the wine slick near my feet. "I'm sorry!" She shouted softly and grinned, revealing that she wasn't sorry at all.

"Young lady…" I spoke with a grim tone, "I advice you to heed more caution with your drink. You wouldn't want to ruin your nice dress on your big night, now would you?"

"Ah! Pish posh!" She flapped her hand, spilling out more of her wine. "‘This bought from five-and-dime, you know? Good and cheap." She patted the skirt and fluttered her eyelashes at me. "If it's ruined, I can always buy a new one." Then she grinned again. "Actually, I already have two similar ones at home…"

I must say, I was rather taken aback. I wasn't used to this kind of conversation at all.

"But please, do a favor to the hostess of the evening, and tell me what you think of my works." She asked me once more.

I stared her straight into her grayish-green eyes, and before I could guard my tongue, I blurted out, "It's total crap."

She nodded in agreement to me. "I know that." Then she gulped down the rest of the wine. "Yuck! This tastes like shit!" She nearly spat out the drink onto me.

I took a step backwards, hoping to avoid further damage to my expensive suit, and answered her, secretly amused by this girl-woman, "I agree."

"The reason I come to these parties…" Melissa told me like she would be telling a secret of a lifetime "…is that they have free wine." Her lips transformed into a sour expression. "But the wine is always so bad!" she complained.

"May I remind this is your big night?" I could hardly suppress my smile. "You should be basking in the glory of these idiots and enjoying what can be gained from it."

"Bad wine is bad wine," She answered casually. "Nothing's going to change that." She looked around us, and an expression of boredom rose on her face. "These parties are just a total waste of time!"

"Ms. Stardust, again I remind you this is your party." I told her, glancing around us. The room was hot and crowded. However, none of the other guests seemed to be paying any attention to us as we spoke in the corner of the room.

"Bah!" She snorted and snatched a new wine glass from the waiter who passed by us. "This is my gallery owner’s party, not mine. I bet he's already blinded by the money this is making him." This time she gulped down all of her wine with a one long drink. "I want to go somewhere else." Her eyes started to shine, and she smiled radiantly. "I want to go somewhere swell instead of this. Will you come with me?"

I stared at her, the young red haired photographer, enthralled and aghast at the same time. If she would leave without hesitation from her own party, I knew she would leave with or without me as well, and I wanted her to leave with me. However, I had an escort to think about, even if she had forgotten me, and I rarely did anything on impulse, which was how Melissa apparently lived her life. I scoffed as I remembered my companion and looked up for her. She was standing further away, talking intently with a blond haired man I knew to be a well-known artist. It seemed that she was occupied elsewhere, and I decided we weren't beholden to each other tonight. It was just as good excuse as any other to me.

Relationships are like drugs. I despise people who entangle themselves in relationships for some needy purpose, returning to similar lovers time and time again when the craving becomes too much to bear. I like my relationships nice and clean. I keep them simple. No idle feelings and no pointless commitments. They only make us weak. When it appears like there will be evolving feelings from either part of the party, I know it's time to move on. Some might think I'm vain, I know. I'm no robot. Like any normal man, I like sex, but if I can have it with a simple contract and without any messy emotions, I see no harm in doing so.

Condemn me if you like, but as I’ve already confessed, I'm your average harlequin man, and my escort had latched herself onto another man. This must have been the reason that ultimately led me to make up my mind. It seemed I was free to spend the evening with other, more interesting company.

I turned my eyes on Melissa and spoke slowly. "Yes. As a matter of fact, I will."

She gave me a nod, and a few of her red curls swung to frame her small heart-shaped face. "Let's go then!" She took me firmly by my hand, and I let her drag me out of the gallery into the cool spring night.

-

We jumped into a cab, and she told the driver to take us to a street address that I didn't know. As the car launched away from the curb, she dug out a silver pocket flask from her ugly black purse. I wondered how much she had drunk, for she appeared to be quite intoxicated already. I guess Melissa sensed my hesitance. She smiled, and she leaned closer to me, whispering. "Don't you like vodka?"

"Rarely," I replied tartly, and she laughed wildly.

"I'm not surprised by that," she teased and leaned closer to me. I could smell her sweat, her perfume, and the raw alcohol on her breath. "You seem to be the worst kind of a dull patron I've ever come across."

I was offended. I had granted her my precious time, and yet she shamelessly dared to offend me this way! People feared me, and they flattered me; they envied me, but they never teased me like she just had done.

"Come now." Her tone was soft and playful. "Don't be such an ass, and have a sip." She offered me her flask. "It won't hurt you, I promise." She convinced me with her white smile again.

"I rather not this time," was my reply.

"Can't I do anything to make you break your stern composure? Not even for a minute?” She wondered out loud as the licensed maniac of a cabdriver kept on steering the car through the busy nighttime streets of the town.

"I seriously doubt it," I answered her crossly.

I could sense her sudden amusement, and she asked me, "What if I bribe you with a kiss?"

I was a businessman, so bribery wasn't an unfamiliar concept to me. The truth was that I wanted to kiss her. However, I wasn't going to settle on the bargain she offered me. It simply wasn't enough. I looked at her and the silver flask in her hand. "I won't be satisfied with a mere kiss." I warned her as I aimed my eyes back on her.

She laughed, and the wind coming from the open window pulled at her messy bun until errant strands of her hair flew around her face. She looked almost too wild, just as she looked almost too alive. She radiated life in a nearly desperate way. I’d never spent time with anyone like her, and I still haven't met her equal.

"I'm not stupid," Melissa said, licking her full, red lips as she met my gaze, "nor am I scared." Her scent grew stronger and made me feel woozy. It was fresh and wild, like the ocean. "I can handle that." She asked me as she slipped her hand on my knee, and the bracelets on her wrist jangled loudly. "But can you…?" I could feel the warmth from her hand through my fine woolen pants as I looked at her. She did not make an attempt to move it; she only looked back, challenging me with her stare.

I took her pocked flask, and she gave out a soft sigh as I tasted her vodka. It had little aftertaste, and, carried away by the irrational moment, I took another sip. The colorless liquid ran down my throat and burned my chest like fire. I coughed, tears in my eyes, and Melissa chuckled amusedly at me. While I sputtered, she took the flask, gulped the rest of the vodka down like water, and threw the flask carelessly out of the window behind her. Without a word, she straddled me in the backseat of the car, wrapped her arms around my neck, and kissed me.

She tasted wild. She kissed wildly, and I wanted her. God, I wanted her more than I knew was possible. We kissed, and during the few scant moments our lips separated, I wanted her even more. I lost myself in her. I don't know what the reason was. Maybe it was the bad wine, or maybe it was the vodka. Maybe it was her. I don't know, but I ached for her. We kissed, and I was lost within her and her spirit-saturated kisses.

-

The music was loud in the bar when we arrived. It was dark trance music they played, with a loud basso and fast synthetic drumming. Number of multicolored lights flashed on the dance floor where people danced as if they were practicing an unknown numinous ritual for equally unknown blood-thirsty gods. Meekly, I followed Melissa, and trust me when I tell you that it wasn't an everyday habit of mine. The bar was familiar place to Melissa, for she knew her way well, and the doormen let us both in straight away.

She navigated through the crowded bar with a confidence and stopped by the bar desk. With her signal, the barman immediately brought us two small glasses of vodka.

She lifted the glass high and gulped down the clear liquid. I tried to follow her example and nearly spat out the entire mouthful, for this vodka had a bad taste. She chortled shortly, and her red curls gleamed like polished copper in the flashing light. I desired her, and, unable to contain myself any longer, I fastened my arms around her, pressing my mouth against hers. I kissed her again, inebriated with her, but she squirmed underneath my grasp and pulled away.

"Njet njet. Not yet my dear patron." Her eyes flickered teasingly in the dark. "I'm here to dance." She pressed her fingertips against my lips, smiling. "You can join me or wait until that time."

So I waited and watched as she danced in her dress from a five-and-dime. I watched her in the middle of that mad crowd. She danced, and I followed her dancing body with my hungry eyes. I could see how she enjoyed both moving her body in time with the music and knowing I was staring at her. She was so full of life, like her art and the music. She was different from everything I knew, and I could not force myself to remember decorum and stop staring at her.

-

That night, we made love in her atelier flat. She cried as I pushed myself into her lithe body. Her nails dug deep into my skin, and I remember her biting my neck. The following day, I found bruises she left with her teeth . I remember that I bit her, too, and I remember her bending over me as I sucked her breasts, and she moaned in pleasure.

Afterwards, I fell asleep holding her body tightly in my arms.

-

It was dawn when I woke. I opened my eyes, and my head was aching. It was early, but I felt sick. I couldn’t remember the last time I'd suffered a hangover, but now my head ached as someone had drilled holes in it. I didn't recognize where I was, and the mattress underneath me was lumpy and hard. Suddenly, the vodka-soaked memories of the previous night came back to me, and my heart started to beat rapidly. I turned around to see if Melissa was nearby, but there was no one by my side. I wondered where she had gone, and after awhile, I got up and walked out of the room, unabashedly naked. I had fucked her for Christ sake, and I was no hypocrite.

I found Melissa in her kitchen. She was pale, and I could see she had cried.

"Ms. Stardust…” I began. My heart was beating restlessly in my chest, "I was disappoint to find you missing as I woke up." I tried to lift up the mood, for I suddenly had a very bad feeling about all this. I suppressed my ominous feeling as well as I could, sat down, and reached to take her hand in mine. She didn't even flinch as she turned her eyes on me.

Paralyzed, I took a deep breath. When she finally raised her eyes to meet mine, I could not see her irises! Her eyes were nothing more than large pupils, and there was no life in them. I knew immediately then what she had done to herself.

I got up, infuriated by this sight and by all what it meant. "What have you been taking?" I demanded to know, and she let out a mad giggle.

"I think too much…"

I took a step closer to her, grasped her tightly in my arms, and shook her furiously as I shouted at her. I was as scared as I was angry, and I didn't know what else I could do. "Tell me, you stupid woman, what have you been taking!"

She was listless and pale, and as she wearily pointed at the kitchen desk, she smiled a twisted, abhorrent smile. "All that I had…" Her words were just a whisper.

I noticed then a small plastic bag and a box of needles on the desk. One needle lay on the desk, used, dark with her blood. I released her, appalled and betrayed, and she collapsed on the floor. "I'm going to die," she stated calmly before she started to sob again.

I called the ambulance, and I thought about getting dressed and leaving before the scene got nasty, but I could not leave her. I wanted to, but I couldn't go. So, I stayed and held her in my arms. She cried like a small child against my bare chest. I remained silent, stoic, as I felt how the life run away from her warm body, the same body I had known only hours ago. She was still beautiful, even with her haunting eyes, and I could not find a will in my heart to condemn her.

She fell into silence, and time passed by.

I held her tightly in my arms as I sat, naked, on her cold kitchen floor, and I prayed the ambulance would arrive soon.

She whispered, "Please don't cry…"

I replied to her, rather disturbed by her sudden words. "I don't cry. I never cry."

"Yes, you do. You just don't know it." She murmured cryptically, and her eyelids fluttered closed once more.

I shook her, scared that she would die before the ambulance arrived, but truthfully, I knew there was little they could do. She was too far gone now.

"I always wanted to have a patron of my own." Melissa said unexpectedly. She opened her eyes, and the longing in them took my breath away. She would die, just as she had said. "I wanted to have Picasso as my patron."

"I thought…" I broke off, tears threatening to choke me. I could not help myself. I so wanted her to live. I desperately wanted hold her as much as I wanted to run away. I took a deep breath and finished the sentence I’d started, "…I was your patron." I buried my face in her copper colored hair, and I could sense she was smiling.

"Don't be jealous."

"I'm not jealous."

"Yes, you are," she whispered and then fell back into silence.

Time passed.

She shrieked as the drugs coursed through her veins, burning her life away. She jerked in my arms and cried. I held her tightly, and I prayed for her soul. I prayed that God would forgive her. I prayed He would forgive me. I prayed she would live. I had never prayed before.

The hands on the clock crawled to meet one another, and she got worse.

Occasionally, I could feel her returning back to her senses, but all the time, that blessing became rarer and more short-lived. Her words turned into a jumbled mess that I could no longer understand. The last coherent words she spoke to me were just a few minutes before the ambulance arrived.

"You'll find me by the sea…"

Her forehead was sweaty as she gasped air with small, pained breaths, and her body trembled as in tremendous fever. She lifted her hand to touch my chin, and I felt that her fingers were cold as ice. I closed my eyes, unwilling to look the marred skin of her arms or the distant gaze in her eyes. I could hear her bracelets chining in my ears, but I still didn't cry.

"I'll wait for you there…"

She shrieked once more and returned back in her private hell, where I had no permission to enter.

I could hear the policemen knocking at the door, but I could not rise. I held her frail body closely to me as it trembled violently. She started to struggle against me, but I didn't dare to let go off her. She vomited and screamed, and I feared what she might do; I feared she would finally give up. I feared she would die in my arms.

The policemen were shouting now, but still I couldn't stand up and let go off Melissa's nearly cataleptic body. Her soul had fled from me, leaving her body behind, and it was shrieking loudly and desperately, without any mind.

I could hear them break down the door and rush inside her atelier. I prayed they would make it in time, but my prayers were left unanswered. They found us in the kitchen floor.

She died on the way to the hospital.

-

Numb, I eventually returned home, and I lay down on my cool, empty bed. I could hear the phone ringing next to me, and finally, annoyed by the constant sound of it, I answered.

Where the hell did you disappear to?" It was yesterday's date, the model with the trim body and glossy lips. She sounded annoyed. More than annoyed actually. "You left me alone! Do you know how humiliating that was?"

"I'm…" I stopped. I could not lie to her, not anymore, for I had seen too much. I wasn't sorry, and I couldn't lie to her or myself any longer.

"What?" She wanted to know.

"I left."

"Yes. I know." She nearly screamed at me. "Tell me something more!"

"What else can I say? It was a boring party anyway."

"Which gives you the right to fuck off with some red-haired bitch instead?"

I closed my eyes, and the picture of the pale face of Melissa’s flashed through my head. "You'd better watch your tongue." I spoke out finally. "I have no wish to see you again."

I hung up the phone and turned on my side. As I lay on my bed, I could hear as the neighbor girl started to demolish a Chopin nocturne on her piano again.

Finally, I heard that little girl’s wish, just as I had once heard my mothers. In it was the willingness to try, to create something beautiful touched me. I closed my eyes and cried.

-

She must have hallucinated. That’s what I came to understand afterwards when I had collected and analyzed the puzzling, drug-blurred words she had spoken to me on that morning. I assumed she had waited for me to fall asleep before taking the drugs. The police confirmed this when they found cocaine, heroine, methamphetamines, and ecstasy in small pouches stashed around her apartment. The autopsy files I later read told me that her body held traces of all of those.

I took a year off from my work, and I traveled in Spain to see the museum of Picasso. I like that country. It reminds me of her. The Atlantic Ocean is wide, and I like to walk on its shores. I started to collect seashells, and I enjoyed listening as the sound of the waves rolls deep within them. Sometimes, I imagined I could hear her laughing along in the echo of the ocean, and sometimes I was alone. I still miss her, but I get along.

I even stopped hating Picasso.