5. Teacher

5

TEACHER

LESTER

Once all the students are seated around the female model in the middle of the room, their easels and canvases in front of them, I start the second class of the day.

The assignment is pretty straightforward―paint what you see in your own style. In front of them is a stunning young woman with a white dress draped over her smooth curves. She lies on her side on a velvet green sofa, her head resting on her hand. Long, curly brown hair falls over her shoulders and breasts as she stays completely still, save for her blinking eyes.

When my students get to work, I take the opportunity to take a breather. It always takes me a while to acclimate standing in front of a class after spending the entire summer planning and executing my kill.

Tomorrow, I'll feel orderly again. I always do.

I take a walk around the large atelier―the place I'm going to spend most of my time in like every other year. It's designed to my liking because this workspace is just for me and my students. Every art teacher has their own appointed classroom inside this university.

Tall wooden cases full of art supplies line the walls of the studio, and there are at least sixteen large tables with space stretching between them to give every student a place of their own. It's important to have space. When I took this job eight years ago, that was one of my requirements. They made this room to my wishes and demands.

I had already established a name for myself in the art world, and I made good bank selling my sculptures. But after my second kill, I knew I needed something stable.

Some years I would have inspiration for miles and I'd create many great pieces. Other years I'd feel drained, meaning there would be barely any money coming in. This job gives me a stable income. Plus, I take great pleasure in sharing my knowledge with my students.

The rest of the room is scattered with easels, unfinished sculptures of various materials, paintings, and case studies pinned to the moss green walls that depict still life, hands, faces, and so on.

Their assignment right now gives me the opportunity to see their skills. When they applied to this school, they submitted whatever they were best at. For some of them that was sculpture, for others drawing or painting. Or photography, architecture, printmaking, ceramics…

I'm giving them free rein―no restrictions. If they want to use their imagination, they can. I even encourage it, as long as they paint the woman in front of them.

When I take a lap around, I can already see the differences. One student works with abstract shapes and bright colors. The next uses classic, realistic techniques and a soft color palette, while another works in black and white with sharp corners and lines.

Taking a deep sigh, I take it all in. It always feels like a privilege to teach.

I scratch my neck when the itchy material of my spare cardigan tickles against my skin. I can't seem to find the one I was wearing this morning. I could've sworn I left it hanging over my chair in the other classroom.

I scratch one more time before I take it off altogether and hang it over a spare stool.

When I cross my arms and resume my journey around the room, I stop when I stand behind Daisy Burton. My eyes move over her canvas, tracing her brush as she smears the paint on the rough material.

There's a reason I remember her submitted artwork to the academy so well. It's because it was so haunting, I could've made it myself.

The picture she's painting right now is no different. Dark colors, a mixture of brown, burgundy, and bright reds. The eyes―despite her having just started on them―are eerie and dead, yet so full of life all at once. When I take a step to the side, it's as if they're following me. The woman on the canvas is trying to lure me to the dark side, and I'm more than happy to plunge into the abyss.

It's hard to tear my eyes away from her hand, the way she so easily moves the brush with the flick of her wrist. I look at the model, who lies there casually with healthy flesh and blood, then move back to her painting. The way her imagination can create something so caliginous and obscure from something so simple and plain is remarkable.

I say nothing, not wanting to disturb her concentration, and continue through the room. Each student here is good―they wouldn't be here if they weren't. Yet no other painting captivates me as much as hers does.

The hour progresses quickly, and I tell the students to put down their palettes and brushes to go have lunch. They have an hour, and they'll continue their paintings after, until the day ends at five o'clock on the dot.

When the whole class has left except for Daisy, I step toward her. "Sorry to pull you out of your trance," I say amusedly. "But you need to eat. You can't create masterpieces on an empty stomach."

She smiles when she slowly puts her brush down, meeting my eyes. "Sorry. I just wanted to finish the hair." Getting up, she takes off her dirty paint-covered apron before she hangs it over her stool. "You have no idea how much I'm enjoying this class, Professor. I used to hate school, just sitting in a dank classroom all day. Now I love it."

"I'm happy to hear that."

I watch her as she quickly washes the paint off her hands and dries them off with a paper towel. Ready to leave, she grabs the leather strap of her bag, yanking it up. The material rips, pens and pencils clattering on the ground, along with what seems to be an art portfolio. Papers slip out, flying all over the floor.

"Ah, crap," she mutters before she sinks down to her knees to gather them. I do the same and I meet her eyes to find her chuckling shyly. "I guess I need to buy a new bag."

When I take one of the drawings in my hand, I'm once again captivated. I keep it between my fingers as my free hand absentmindedly grabs another one. "These are remarkable, Daisy."

They're dark, just like the one she's currently working on. A woman with blood leaking out of her eyes as her expression is pleading, as if begging for mercy. Everything is black and white except for the bright blood.

"Thank you, Professor," she answers sweetly. "That means a lot, coming from you."

"Why do you have these on you?" I reach out my hand so she can take them, and her fingers brush against me as her gaze penetrates mine. For a second there, those eyes of hers have me in a strong grip. They're dark, like black coffee.

Her knees are bare on the ground, and her short skirt lifts up just slightly. She wears a matching jacket, the colors a fine mix of dark brown and burgundy.

"I always take some drawing materials with me everywhere I go. I like to sketch and doodle when inspiration strikes me. I was so nervous this morning, for my first day of school, you know? So I spent my time drawing in the park on campus until it was time for class."

"These are no doodles, Miss Burton. And there's no need to be nervous, right? You get to do what you love here. This room should become your safe space."

"Well…" she trails off, grinning. "I'm getting classes from the best sculptor in the state. Lester freakin' Gilbert. Of course I was nervous."

I chuckle. "You flatter me. There's no need to be nervous around me. I'm just a normal guy."

Nodding her head, she gives me another sweet smile. "Okay. I'll try not to be."

I get up off the floor and reach out my hand for her to take, helping her up. When she's back on her feet, she tilts her head upward to meet my eyes. She's a lot smaller than I am―she barely reaches my shoulder, and she's wearing heels.

I clear my throat. "You have some red paint on your cheek."

"Oh." She reaches for her face, but she just makes it worse. Taking a clean handkerchief out of my pocket, I reach over to her cheek. She's quiet as I move the soft fabric over her skin and I take a step closer so I can apply more pressure.

"It has dried a bit. Difficult to scrape off."

She grabs my hand, taking the fabric to her mouth before spitting on it, raising her eyebrows with amusement. "You gotta get things a little wet first, sometimes."

That… that was inappropriate.

I don't react, only moving the handkerchief over her cheek until she's clean, and I slowly move my hand away, putting the cloth back inside my pocket.

She doesn't move her eyes away, so I take it upon myself to break the contact. "You can give your stuff to me," I tell her. "I'll keep it safe in my office until the day ends. I'm sure I have a spare bag that you can borrow to carry your things home."

"Thank you. That would be great." Gathering everything up, she hands it to me. "See you in a bit, Professor. Enjoy your lunch."

A little past five, Daisy Burton knocks on my office door. Class is done for the day and the students have finished their paintings.

"Come on in. I packed up your stuff in my spare bag." I close the door behind her before I walk over to my desk to grab it. "I'm impressed with your work today. Where did you get the inspiration from?"

She purses her lips as she thinks that over, folding her hands behind her back. "I guess I just have a dark mind. I find the most beautiful things in the darkness." She moves closer to my desk. "I must admit that you're a big inspiration for me, Mr. Gilbert. The first piece I ever saw from you was the fallen angel installation. The sculpture of the cherub stuck in all those ropes, desperately trying to break free. The details on those wings were incredible. It inspired the shit out of me." She clears her throat. "Pardon my language."

I huff an amused breath. "No need to censor yourself on my account."

She taps her fingernails on my desk, then proceeds to take a seat on top of it carelessly, leaning on her hands and swinging her bare legs back and forth. An odd thing to do, but she doesn't seem to notice it.

"And where do you get the inspiration from?" she counters. "How did you establish your signature? Why not something a little more uplifting and colorful?"

I decide to take a seat in the chair behind me. "Vivid dreams. Nightmares. I decided that if I made them real, they couldn't frighten me because my own hands created them. They could be my strength."

Leaning back in my leather chair, our proximity has me noticing her colorful orange eyeshadow and long lashes. A slight blush paints her cheeks in a sweet pink shade, making her freckled nose stand out. A golden necklace with the letter D glimmers in the bright lights.

She looks playful and authentic, in total discrepancy with her art. Whereas her work is sinister and crepuscular, she's a little ball of sunshine herself.

"I do that, too. Escapism through art. A way to fight the nightmares," she remarks. "Those knots you used―" She tilts her head, almost resting it on her shoulder as she faces me again. "What's that called? It's bondage, isn't it?"

"Kinbaku. It's a special type of bondage, originating from Japan. It's somewhat of a passion of mine." I lean back further in the chair, the leather creaking beneath my weight.

"So do you only use it in your art? Or for other things, too?"

She just looks at me with expectant curiosity, so I answer honestly. "I occasionally use it in private encounters."

"Ah…" She nods slowly, tapping her emerald green nails on the wooden desk, the polish slightly chapped. "Interesting. How did you learn?"

"I took trips when I was younger. Visited numerous clubs in different countries where there were artists and masters performing it."

She raises an eyebrow and her mouth falls open slightly. "Do you mean… sex clubs?"

I chuckle, nodding. "I learned a lot there, though I must say I mostly taught myself. I like figuring things out on my own, in my comfortable studio, where I feel most at home."

Someone knocks on the door, and Daisy jumps off the desk, grabbing the bag on the way. "I should go. See you on Wednesday, Professor. Enjoy your evening."

"You too, Miss Burton. Good night."