Kisses from Hell

“Okay, so maybe you’re not Picasso—yet, but you’ve got an artist’s way of looking at things, which is nothing like the normal way of looking at things. Painters like you and me—we don’t see life the same way as everyone else. We notice the details, all the things they miss. Then we add and subtract and interpret them in our own way. So, with that in mind, why would we ever choose not to try something? To just settle for the same ole, same ole? Why would you even consider signing up for the usual, mundane experience?” He leans toward me, his brow lifted high over the rim of his glasses. “And, as artists, it’s practically our duty to look upon our lives as one long artistic experiment. The more you allow yourself to experience, the more your craft can grow. And trying new things is a very big part of that. You’ll be amazed at how it feeds your imagination and frees your—soul.”

I shrug, watching as he pours some red liquid from a decanter into my goblet, thinking, Great. Now he thinks I’m an uptight prude! And immediately chasing it with, Who cares what he thinks? He’s a fellow student, not a Jake replacement. Clinking my glass against his and nearly choking when I bring it to my lips and discover it doesn’t just look like wine, but it really is wine.

He looks at me, laughing when he sees my reaction, then continues to drink and eat like he’s used to dining like this.

“You actually like it?” I ask, watching as he makes good progress toward emptying his glass.

Seeing him nod when he says, “I’ve spent a lot of time on the road, traveling all over Europe with my mom and her band. It’s not at all like the States, here there are a lot fewer restrictions. You can drink, go to clubs, live like an adult, it’s all good.” He smiles. “Everything in moderation—right? Or at least, almost everything.”

I nod, immediately pegging him as way out of my league. I mean, a guy like that, a guy so worldly and experienced, would never be interested in a small-time girl like me. Not that I care or anything. I’m just saying.

“Your life sounds so…exotic,” I mumble, finally able to look at him again.

But he just shrugs. “To me it’s just—my life. It’s what’s familiar—what I’m used to.” He spears a sausage link and chews thoughtfully. “The idea of going to a normal American high school—now that’s exotic.”

“You don’t go to school?” I look at him, wondering how he qualified for the program, since it was open only to high school seniors.

“Nope, I have a tutor. Think of it like a traveling home school, if you will.” He shrugs, ru

I gaze down at my plate, thinking about the hell I went through last semester when the whole humiliating Jake and Tiffany story broke. How everyone stared at me, gossiped about me, and how the couple in question obviously enjoyed flaunting it, by the way they always chose to make out right in front of her locker, which was just two rows from mine. I had no one to turn to. I was completely alone. My dad was too busy, Nina too…bitchy, and, unfortunately, for the last few years I’d relied so much on Tiffany, I’d forgotten to make other friends. And even though my coming here to England has handled the out of sight part of it, I’m still waiting for the out of mind part to follow. I wish it would hurry.

“It’s nothing like you see on TV,” I say, trying to peer into his glasses, see what lurks behind those dark lenses, but the only eyes I see are my own reflecting right back at me. “Nothing like it at all.” I sigh. “Trust me, it’s far worse than that.”

The second we finish eating, Camellia clears our plates and tries to get us to head back to our rooms so we can paint. But we don’t want to head back to our rooms, and our saying as much really upsets her.

“It’s not like we need babysitting,” Bram says, smiling at her in that charming way that he has. “If you want to head out—head out! We can look after ourselves.”

She glances between us, obviously so unhappy by our refusal to go along with her plans I’m about to agree just to please her, figuring we can always just sneak out later. But when she disappears with a tall stack of dishes, Bram leans toward me and says, “What’s her deal?”

I shrug. I don’t know what anyone’s deal is. I’m nothing like him. I didn’t grow up on the road, drinking wine in exotic locales, with a goth band mom. I’m a half-orphaned only child, from an L.A. suburb, who’s used to a pretty normal, ho-hum existence, who, oh yeah, just happens to have artistic ambitions. But still, no matter how weird it is here, with our clothes, the mist, Violet, and Camellia—I’m not the least bit homesick. I mean, yeah, I miss my dad—or at least the old version of him. But I don’t miss Nina, or high school, or either one of my two former friends.

And the next thing I know Bram is beside me, offering his hand as he says, “Come on, let’s ditch this place before she comes back.”

We slip out the front door and straight into the mist, the two of us laughing as we stumble along, clutching at each other so as not to get lost. And even though his hand feels so good with the way his soft, cool palm presses tightly, and the way his fingers entwine so nicely with mine, I’m quick to remind myself that it’s purely for practical purposes. So that we don’t get separated and lose each other in the haze. No matter how nice, no matter how right it may feel, it means nothing to him, so it shouldn’t mean something to me.

We move forward, slowly, carefully, heading toward the area where the mist is at its thickest, not realizing we’ve stumbled into a graveyard until I’ve fallen head-first over a tombstone.

“Must be the family plot,” Bram says, voice coming from somewhere just above me as he helps me to stand. “And watch out for the roses. They’re so big and vicious they practically jump out at you.”

But a second after he says it, it’s too late. I’ve already been scratched by one of those thorns, digging into the side of my neck, somewhere between my ear and the hollow.

I let go of his hand so I can assess the damage, my fingers slipping through something warm and wet that can only be blood—my blood.

“Too late,” I say, wincing when I touch it again. “Maybe we should head back inside so I can clean it up, get a Band-Aid or something. Okay? Bram?”

I reach out beside me, in front of me, behind me, my hands groping into thin air, the space he just filled—but he’s gone. No longer there. No longer—anywhere.

I turn all around, calling his name, as my arms flail through the mist. But I can’t see him. Can’t see anything. And no matter how loudly I call, no matter how many times I shout out his name, there’s no response.

I’m alone.

And yet—I’m not.

There’s someone else. Something else. And when I see that soft red glow in the distance, I turn and run the opposite way. Falling over a mound of freshly dug dirt, not realizing until a hand is clamped over my mouth that that loud, piercing scream came from me.