1. Chapter 1 Natalie

Chapter 1 Natalie

T he jackhammer bites into the canvas with a relentless, teeth-rattling rhythm, each vicious strike a physical manifestation of the fury and anguish churning through me. Droplets of crimson paint spatter across my face, like the bleeding aftermath of my own internal wounds.

My studio pulses with a frenzied, almost primal energy as I channel every fractured piece of my being into this emerging work. Every sharp edge of metal, every bold slash of color - they coalesce into a raw, unyielding monument to the poison that’s been ingrained in me since birth.

The life I’ve somehow managed to survive, even as I continue to run from it. Even here, in this cramped, decrepit space that barely passes for an artist’s haven.

As I pause to swipe the sweat from my brow, my gaze snares on the latest addition to the piece now a twisted lattice of broken glass and hypodermic needles, bound together with strands of my own hair. An intricate, brutally beautiful representation of the unspeakable.

Just like my mother. Dazzling one moment, a dope-sick nightmare the next. I can still feel the sting of her nails tearing into my cheek, hear the slurred, venomous screams that echoed in my ears even as life drained from her eyes.

The sudden buzz of my phone is a welcome distraction, yanking me from the abyss of those poisoned memories. I drop the jackhammer and scrabble for the device, fingers slick with paint. A cocktail of relief and trepidation churns in my gut when I see the familiar caller ID.

Dad. Right on cue, ready to pull me back from the edge of my own personal hell.

“Hey, pumpkin.” His voice is a warm, honey-smooth balm, soothing over the ragged edges of my psyche. “Caught you in the middle of creating another masterpiece?”

“Something like that,” I reply wryly, casting a sardonic glance at the glorified junkyard I’ve assembled. “You know me, always elbow-deep in the guts of my own psychodrama.”

He chuckles, the crackle of static underscoring the proud affection in his tone. “That’s my girl. Channeling the tough stuff into high art. You’re gonna set the world on fire, baby. Just you wait.”

I swallow hard against the sudden lump in my throat. “From your lips to the art gods’ ears. If I could just make rent this month, I’d call it a win.”

“Still scraping by in that sardine tin in the city?” Concern sharpens his voice. “Nat, you know I’m always here if you need-”

“I’m good, Dad,” I cut him off gently, even as we both know it’s a blatant lie. It’s a reassurance I cling to like a lifeline, desperate to shield him from the ugly realities of my situation. “I’m not going to ride on your coattails. Not when you’ve worked so hard for an honest living.”

The irony of that statement makes my teeth ache. Dad may be one of the most stand-up guys I know, but “honest” is a generous stretch. No one claws their way out of the trailer park without getting a little dirt under their nails.

“Well, you just say the word and I’ll hock the Buick to get you back on your feet,” he offers, only half-joking. “I worry about you out there, peanut. You’re too damn stubborn for your own good sometimes.”

“Wonder where I got that from,” I tease, picking absently at a fleck of rust on my jeans. “But seriously, I’m hanging in there. The work is good, and I’ve got a few irons in the fire. A big gallery show coming up that could be my big break.”

“Look at you, rubbing elbows with the artsy-fartsy set!“ he crows, pride radiating through the static. “Next thing you know, you’ll be jetting off to Paris and forgetting all about your old man.”

“Not a chance,” I vow, meaning it with every fractured piece of my heart. “You’re stuck with me, Dad. No matter how big I make it, I’ll always be your little girl.”

We lapse into the familiar rhythm of catching up, swapping stories of leaky faucets and eccentric neighbors. For these precious minutes, I let myself pretend that everything is fine, that I’m not one errant check away from total ruin.

But then an offhand comment from Dad snags in my mind like a barbed hook. “Listen, pumpkin, I might be out of town for a few days on business. Something big is in the works. But I’ll call you as soon as I’m back, okay?”

“Sure, Dad,” I respond automatically, even as a queasy dread unfurls in the pit of my stomach. Dad’s always had a nose for shady opportunities, a knack for sniffing out the next big score. And his ventures don’t always stay on the straight and narrow.

“Is everything alright?” I try to play it off as a casual tease, but the words emerge laced with anxiety. “You’re not getting mixed up in anything…shady, are you?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” he assures me, a touch too breezily. “Just a time-sensitive investment opportunity. Boring grown-up stuff, you know how it is.”

“Yeah, totally,” I mutter, unconvinced. An oily, unsettling intuition coils through me, the sense that something is deeply, irrevocably off. “Well, watch your back out there. And call me if you need anything, okay?”

“10-4, pumpkin. I’ll holler at you on the flip side. Love you mostest.”

“Love you more,” I echo, clinging to the familiar endearment like a talisman against the chill prickling my skin as the line goes dead.

Alone once more with my monstrous creations, I turn back to the canvas, fingers twitching with the primal urge to create, to destroy. To bleed out every hidden wound festering beneath the surface.

But as I ready the blowtorch, a flash of my father’s face surfaces behind my eyes - etched with shadows and secrets I’ve never allowed myself to see. The sight sends a chill down my spine, my blood running cold with dread.

Shaking off the ominous vision, I throw myself back into the work, drowning in the familiar cacophony of metal and madness. Yet no matter how I try to lose myself, the gnawing fear continues to chew at the edges of my consciousness.

Something is coming. A reckoning, a dark omen perched on the razor’s edge of my life. And when it arrives, I have a sick, sinking feeling that not even my stalwart father - my north star - will be able to guide me from the gathering gloom.

As the sickly orange light of sunset filters through the grime-streaked windows, I step back to survey my latest creation. This twisted amalgam of glass and steel thrums with a malevolent energy, a work that teeters on the edge of brilliance. But it’s not enough. It will never be enough.

I need more. More chaos, more destruction, more of the sweet, searing oblivion that only my art can provide. But my supplies are dwindling, and my pockets are emptier than a junkie’s broken promise.

Cursing under my breath, I fish out my phone and scroll to a familiar contact - Sienna, my sometimes-friend and constant enabler. Her sultry purr answers on the third ring.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite little Picasso. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Cut the crap, Si,” I sigh, no patience for our usual dance. “I need a favor. A big one.”

“Color me intrigued,” she practically purrs, and I can picture the arch of her perfectly sculpted brow. “What’s the damage, sweet thing?”

I hesitate, hating myself for what I’m about to ask. But desperate times and all that. “I need a hookup. For supplies. The kind that doesn’t come cheap.”

Silence stretches for a beat, then a low, throaty chuckle. “Oh, Natty. You know I’m always happy to play Santa to my struggling artist friends. But I’m afraid my goodwill doesn’t come for free.”

I grit my teeth, grip tightening on the phone. “What do you want, Sienna?”

“Just a small favor in return,” she simpers, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “I’m having a little get-together tonight. A soirée, if you will. And I need a bit of eye candy to class up the joint.”

Bile rises in my throat at the thought of debasing myself for Sienna’s sneering socialite friends. But I’m running out of options - it’s either swallow my pride or risk losing the only thing keeping me sane.

“Fine,” I bite out, hating the way my voice wavers. “I’ll be there. But you better come through with the goods, Si. I mean it.”

“Don’t I always?” she laughs, the sound like shattering crystal. “See you at nine, darling. And do try to wear something a bit more…festive than your usual rags, hmm?”

The line goes dead before I can summon a suitably scathing retort. I toss the phone aside with a muttered curse, already dreading the night ahead.

And yet, a treacherous part of me can’t deny the flicker of excitement at the prospect of losing myself in Sienna’s glittering world of vice and excess. Of drowning my demons in a sea of overpriced champagne and the crush of writhing bodies on the dance floor.

It’s a dangerous game, a descent into the darkness that lurks beneath the city’s neon veneer. But it’s a game I know all too well, one I’ve been playing since I was old enough to sneak out my bedroom window and into the waiting arms of trouble.

And trouble, it seems, is always eager to welcome me home.

Hours later, I stand before the cracked bathroom mirror, scarcely recognizing the girl staring back. Gone are my paint-splattered jeans and ratty t-shirt, replaced by a slinky black dress that clings to every curve like a second skin, the hemline barely grazing the tops of my thighs.

My unruly mane of ink-dark waves has been tamed into a severe, slicked-back ponytail, and my lips are stained a shade of red that screams “fuck me” and “fuck you” in equal measure. I look like a lethal weapon, honed and ready to strike - a far cry from the broken doll I know lurks just beneath the surface.

The taxi ride to Sienna’s is a blur of neon and noise, the city’s very lifeblood pulsing in time with my own racing heart. By the time we pull up to the gleaming high-rise, I’m already buzzing with a sickening cocktail of anticipation and dread.

The doorman eyes me with a knowinsmirk as I step into the waiting elevator, my reflection warping and distorting in the mirrored walls. And there, in the fractured glass, I catch a glimpse of the girl I’ve been running from - tired, afraid, lost in a way that has nothing to do with the city’s twisting streets and everything to do with the darkness gnawing at my soul.

But then the doors are sliding open, and I’m stepping out into a world of glittering chandeliers and clinking glasses, air kisses, and predatory smiles. Sienna holds court at the center of the fray, resplendent in a gown the color of fresh blood.

“Natalie, darling,” she coos, pulling me into a hug that reeks of expensive perfume and cheaper intentions. “So glad you could make it. You look ravishing.”

I paste on a smile that feels more like a grimace, accepting the flute of champagne she presses into my hand. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Si. You know how I love a good party.”

She laughs, the sound like shattering ice. “That’s my girl. Now, let’s get you introduced around, shall we? I have a feeling you’re going to be the belle of the ball tonight.”

And just like that, I’m swept up into the maelstrom, passed from hand to hand like some exotic party favor. Tailored-suit-clad men leer down the front of my dress while their wives size me up with cool, appraising gazes, mentally calculating my worth in carats and social currency.

I hate them all, with their empty smiles and hollower hearts. But I play my part to perfection, laughing at their vapid jokes and leaning in close to whisper scandalous nothings. All the while, the champagne flows like water, and I feel myself slipping further and further from the girl I know myself to be.

By the time Sienna pulls me away with a conspiratorial wink, I’m well and truly drunk, the room spinning in a kaleidoscope of color and sound. She leads me down a shadowed hallway, her fingers biting into my arm with bruising intensity.

“I have a little surprise for you,” she purrs, pushing open a door to reveal a dimly lit bedroom. “Consider it a thank you for being such a good sport tonight.”

And there, spread out on the bed like an offering, is a veritable cornucopia of every vice known to man. Pills and powders, gleaming like jewels in the candlelight. A mirror dusted with lines of white, a rolled-up bill waiting patiently beside it.

My mouth goes dry at the sight, even as my veins thrum with a desperate, clawing hunger. This is what I came for, isn’t it? The sweet oblivion, the blessed numbness that only chemicals can provide.

But as I reach for the promise of escape with shaking fingers, a voice echoes in my head - clear and cutting as glass.

“You’re better than this, pumpkin.” My father’s gruff tone, laced with emotion and unshed tears. “You’re so much better than this.”

I freeze, hand hovering over the glittering array. For a moment, I’m torn - caught between the siren song of self-destruction and the steady, guiding light of my father’s love.

But in the end, there is no choice at all.

With a shuddering breath, I snatch my hand back as if burned, staggering away from the bed on unsteady legs.

“I can’t,” I whisper, the words cracking on my tongue. “I’m sorry, Si, but I can’t do this. Not anymore.”

Sienna’s face twists into a mask of rage and disbelief, her carefully constructed facade crumbling like a house of cards. “Are you serious right now? After everything I’ve done for you, this is how you repay me?”

I shake my head, vision blurring with tears. “I’m grateful for your help, Si. Truly, I am. But this…this isn’t who I am. It’s not who I want to be.”

She scoffs, eyes glittering with malice. “Oh, please. Spare me the tortured artist routine, Natalie. We both know you’re just a junkie with a paintbrush, a washed-up has-been who’ll never amount to anything.”

Her words cut like a thousand knives, each one finding its mark with unerring precision. But for once, I refuse to let them tear me apart. I won’t let them define me.

“You’re wrong,” I say, my voice steady even as my heart races. “I’m more than that. I’m more than this. And I’m done pretending otherwise.”

With that, I turn on my heel and walk out, leaving Sienna and her poisonous promises behind. The cool night air hits me like a slap as I stumble out onto the street, my lungs aching with each ragged breath.

I have no idea where I’m going, or what I’ll do next. But for the first time in what feels like an eternity, I can feel something stirring in my chest - something bright and fierce and unbreakable.

Hope.

It’s a fragile thing, a flickering candle in the all-consuming darkness of my life. But it’s mine, and I’ll nurture it with every ounce of strength I have left.

Because my father was right. I am better than this - better than the lies, the self-destruction, the endless cycle of running and numbing and pretending.

I am Natalie fucking Quinn. An artist, a fighter, a survivor.

And no matter how hard the world tries to break me, no matter how many times I stumble and fall, I’ll always find my way back to the light.

Even if I have to claw my way there, tooth, nail and bloody fingertips.