Blind Obsession

Chapter Twenty-Five ~ Sacred

Phillipe looks over to where Gemma is kneeling naked on the floor with her arms wrapped around her waist. He can see her fingers against her back as the violin is propped up behind her.

The Sacred pose now resonates in the deepest parts of him. Depicting a woman’s smooth skin, she’s stripped bare of everything, except for her violin and her soul.

When he walked by Gemma’s room earlier tonight, he heard her calling out Chantel’s name. He didn’t know what to think. At first, he stood frozen by the door while the name he cherished floated through the air. He thought he had imagined it until it was repeated over again.

Deciding to go in and investigate, he was shocked to see the bedroom empty, especially when he expected Gemma to be lying in bed. All that greeted him though was an unmade bed with rumpled sheets and her laptop open, displaying that horribly tragic article. The words pointed at him like an accusatory finger.

That was when he heard it again. Chantel’s name was almost moaned this time. As he followed it to the bathroom, he found Gemma halfway submerged in the tub of water. Moving quickly to her, Phillipe felt his stomach plummet as his heart picked up at a rapid tattoo pace.

No, no, no! was his initial thought as she laid there, unmoving and silent. Automatically, he reached out, watching the blonde hair floating around her face change to black as he was hurled back to that day. That terrible day was forever etched into his mind with such alarming detail that he felt like it was an image carved on the insides of his eyelids.

Blinking rapidly as his frantic heartbeats increased, he grasped her naked shoulder. When he touched it, feeling her warm skin, he allowed his breathing to somewhat calm. She’s alive. As that thought registered in his mind, she opened her eyes to stare up at him.

“Phillipe?”

Looking away from the spot he has now painted over several times, he notices Gemma is looking at him over her shoulder.

“Yes?” he replies absentmindedly. He tries to bring himself back to the present with the woman who is here.

“You said something. I was just asking what you meant.”

Frowning, he shakes his head. After placing the paintbrush down, he runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”

He concentrates as Gemma’s eyes narrow on him. He knows that she wants more from him. Every time he touches her, he feels her whole body open, wanting to give herself to him. Instead of returning the gesture though, he just continues to take. He takes her mind, and he takes her body. He also knows that, at some point in between, she has also handed him her heart.

Repeatedly, he reminded her that there was no way he could be what she wanted. He was still spoken for. He was damaged, and he was still hers.

“That’s okay,” she says from across the room.

She stands and turns to pick up the sweater that she left on the desk. It’s the same desk that he moved up here for a journalist only weeks ago. Weeks ago, he specifically requested that journalist to be Gemma Harris.

After she pulls the blue wool over her head, she steps into her pants. He quietly watches as she gets dressed. If things were only different, Phillipe thinks to himself. If she had been first for him, maybe he wouldn’t be where he was today. Maybe he’d be happy, and maybe, he could have made her happy.

She crosses the space to where he is standing and moves around the easel. That’s when he hears her take a shocked deep breath. Looking at her, he sees the questions flooding in her eyes.

“What? Why...” She stutters and then stops. Licking her lips, she straightens her shoulders. “That’s not me,” she points out.

Phillipe turns away from the full force of her accusation and reaches out to trace his fingers over the canvas. He doesn’t care that the paint smears and smudges. His fingers move over the dark hair that is pulled into a loose bun at the nape of a luminescent neck.

“No,” he confesses, “but when I look at you, she is all I see.”

Trying not to lose hold of the tight grip I have on my emotions, I bite my bottom lip and nod.

“All of them?” I question, needing to know. I need to know if he painted her in every single one of the images he made me pose for.

He turns on the wooden stool he is seated on, and haunted eyes stare up at me. He replies softly, “All of them.”

I nod, and without a word, I pivot on my heel, wanting to leave the space. I need to get away.

Just as I reach the door, I hear him whisper, “I’m sorry.”

As I turn around, ready to forgive him, I notice his hand is on the canvas, and I realize that it isn’t me he is apologizing to.

Picking up the journal from the table by the door, I quickly flee the scene. I can’t even begin to hold back my emotions while I run down the stairs. I glance swiftly at the woman who hangs silently as the center of attention. She’s the center of importance in this house. I feel the tears welling in my eyes. I know that I’m fighting a losing battle, yet I keep throwing myself down on the sword. Constantly, I give myself to him, and continually, he denies me for her.

As I push open the back door, I’m relieved to see that night has settled in because the darkness is the exact place where I want to be. Picking up my coat and a small flashlight, I head out. Following the little dirt path he led me down a couple of nights before, I make my way through the rows of vines as I reach up to wipe the tears from my face.

When am I going to fucking learn? The pain caused by his confession continues to pummel me in waves. She is all I see. His words repeat in my mind as the memory of his tortured expression tears at my heart. Why can’t I just let him go? It has only been a few weeks. Days before this, I didn’t even know who Phillipe Tibideau really was. In fact, the thought of knowing him intimidated me. But now? Now, the thought of not knowing him slays me.

As I make the final turn in the bend, the Fleuve Sauvage de Fleurs comes into view. I slow my pace and notice the moon is casting a beautiful glow across the running water.

Gradually, I move toward the edge of the bank. I can hear the yellowhammers chirping in the branches above, just like she did. As I get to the edge of the river, I sit down and open her journal. Closing my eyes for a minute, I pause, listening to the sounds around me. There aren’t many. It’s extremely peaceful. I hear only the running water, the birds, and the occasional croak of a full-bellied toad. Opening my eyes to stare up at the sky, I search for peace or comfort of some kind before I look down at the writing before me.

If I can’t have him, then I am determined to hear from the one woman who did.

Perceptions ~

I spoke to my mother today.

She called me because one of our family friends had let my parents know that they had read an article about their daughter and how she had inspired an artist. Naturally, my parents had then looked up the artist and the collection online.

It always amazes me that two people can be put in a room with the exact same object or image, and as they stand there and study it, they will undoubtedly arrive at two very different conclusions.

Especially when it comes to my relationship with Phillipe.

“Chantel, honey, I think it’s time you came home. Don’t you?”

“No, Mom, I don’t think I need to come home. I’m an adult, and I am happy here.”

In all fairness, she had started out calmly. It wasn’t until she had mentioned the reason for her call that I got annoyed.

“How can you be happy, posing naked for a man all day, Chantel? Is that your definition of a productive life now?”

“I do not pose naked all day for a man, Mom.” I paused, taking a breath, as I paced around the studio.

Phillipe went to town when I received the call. I was starting to wish I had gone with him.

“Mary Beth called me today, and she told me she had read all about you and The Blind Vision Collection. Chantel, honestly, the paintings are obscene.”

Shaking my head, I tried to remind myself that she was my mother, so of course, seeing those pictures shocked her. The poses were intimate. They were nude. Her reaction was normal, especially coming from a parental point of view.

“He is using you, Chantel.”

That was not parental. That was cruel and unfair.

“He has a name. It is Phillipe. You met him once, but apparently, you can’t even be bothered to remember that. He is not using me, Mom, and even if he was, maybe I want to be used.”

“Chantel!”

“What?” I demanded into the phone. I was angered on behalf of the man who so lovingly touched me and looked after me. I was angered for a man who was not here to defend himself. “He has never done anything but love me, Mom.”

She lowered her voice, and I could tell that she was either trying to keep herself under control or she was trying to hide the conversation from someone.

“What he has done is take your gift—your love of music—and destroyed it. He’s defiled it and you, Chantel Rosenberg. The fact that your uncle allowed you to meet him in the first place and that you have allowed all of this is abhorrent!” Her breath heaved through the phone until she finally let out a quick disgusted breath. “Well, obviously, he’s manipulated you.”

Gripping the phone tightly, I gritted my teeth and spat back, more irate than I had ever been before. “Phillipe has not in any way manipulated me, Mother. He asked, and I said yes. It was nothing more and nothing less.”

There was a frosty silence befpre she said, “What he has done is take a vulnerable girl who was lost and seduced her into a relationship that is disgusting and depraved. It should be a crime!”

Squeezing my eyes shut, I took a breath. Almost as though my brain understood what I wanted to say better than my heart, I told her calmly, “I am a woman. I am a grown woman who fell in love with a man. I was never lost, Mother, but if I was, I am glad that Phillipe is the one who found me. There is nothing sick, nothing depraved, and certainly nothing criminal about the way we love one another. It is not my fault that when you look at the images, you see something unhealthy and disgusting. That’s all on you.” I closed my eyes, and before ending the call, I said, “Until you can understand that, do not call me again.”

After I hung up, I felt tears escape my eyes.

I wasn’t crying for my mother or for myself. I was crying for the man I loved. I was crying at the realization that anyone could think he was anything other than good.

Phillipe suspected he would find her down by the river.

As he steps around the final small bend, he spots her. She is close to the edge with a tiny light pointing to the journal she holds in her lap. The sun set around fifteen minutes earlier, and as she switches off the light, he knows that she is done for the moment. Uncertain as to what she is going to do next, she surprises him when she places the book beside her on the grass and lies down.

Closing his eyes, images started to flash before him—the sun, the rain, and then the night.

Shaking his head to dislodge the thoughts, he steps forward. As the leaves crunch beneath his feet, Gemma turns swiftly, pinning him with her stare.

“You scared me,” she accuses quietly across the empty space.

Phillipe understands that. Right now, Gemma is as consumed as he is. That’s what this place does. That’s what she did.

“I’m sorry.”

He follows her movements as she turns back to lie down again, staring up at the sky. Making himself walk over to where she is, he sits and looks down at her in her silence. When he realizes that he wants to reach out and touch her, he makes himself look away. Instead, he focuses on one of the trees on the opposite side of the river, where he always saw her standing.

“Will you tell me?” Gemma asks softly.

Taking a deep breath, he feels anguish splintering through his chest. Reaching up, he clutches the sweater covering his heart as he feels tears gather in his eyes. Swallowing deeply, he tries to form the words but finds nothing will come. Gemma’s small palm slips into his free one.

Turning, he looks to where she is sitting up beside him. He brokenly confesses, “I don’t know if I can.”

Compassionate eyes hold his while she reaches across them both, placing her other hand against his heart.

“Will you try?”

I can feel his sorrow as if it is my own as I grip his hand tightly. The hand he clutches around his sweater is locked against his chest. As he turns his head and eyes away from mine, I remove my palm but continue to hold his hand.

“I wanted to paint her here,” he starts softly.

Holding my breath, I try not to make a sound. I don’t want him to stop, but I have no idea if I’ll be able to handle what he is about to tell me.

“It was a beautiful day. The sun was out, and it was warm, not like now.” He stops for a moment and frowns.

He licks his lips nervously before continuing. “I had this idea. It was a vision of her.” He releases his grip over his sweater and drops his hand into his lap. “I always thought she was so…” He stutters here, and a shudder racks him as he continues holding my hand. “Ethereal. She was always so ethereal-looking. Her skin was so white and perfect.”

Turning his head, he pins me with his stare, and I notice for the first time that his eyes have tears in them.

“She was perfect.” Shaking his head, he looks back to the water or across it in the darkness.

“I asked her if she would mind posing in the water.”

Laughing a little, he squeezes my hand again. My heart thumps harder at every word that is coming from his mouth.

“She smiled and asked if she had to be naked. I told her, ‘No, I want you to be in a dress, a white dress.’”

The tight grip he has on my hand loosens, and I feel him slipping away from me. I try to think of something, anything, to keep him talking in the moment.

I ask, “So, you wanted her in a white dress? Why?”

This time, when his eyes meet mine, they look tortured. They look haunted as he turns back to face the water.

Out into the empty darkness, he whispers, “I wanted to paint her as I saw her, like my own gift from God. I wanted her to look like an angel.”

I try to imagine how he is feeling, but I find I have no words. Instead, we sit silently for I don’t know how long on the grassy bank of the Fleuve Sauvage de Fleurs. I can feel her presence in a way I never have before.

His angel is here.