“It’s my confession,” Samara continued to the only one that mattered. A passing woman in a cream-coloured dress cast her a confused glance.
Dale revealed swollen purple gums and bloodied teeth as he smiled in greeting. A second corpse had shambled into the exhibition hall, stepping through the open double doors from the foyer and taking in the scene.
Samara had no idea how her former friend could take in the scene. Pulpy cavities stared out across the hall, somehow finding her. Lily’s head tottered, secreting congealed blood from torn arteries hanging beneath her sliced jaw.
One could cut but not intricately carve.
Rather than blindly grope after her quarry, Lily slowly turned, finding Dale. She joined him by the entrance.
“Most of all,” Samara whispered, “it’s my admission.”
“Ladies and gentlemen! If I can have your attention, please.” Miss Jones stood centre stage. “We’re about to start the awards ceremony, if you would care to take a seat.” Excited murmurs filled the room, temporarily drowning out the gentle music. The suits and dresses made their way to the rows of seats. “Students. I need you up here with me.”
Keeping her hands deep in the pockets of her hoodie, one gripping the art knife tighter still, the other clenched into a fist to stop the violent flapping of her fingers, Samara followed her fellow students as they drifted towards the stage. She aimed to stand as far back as possible, ideally behind some of the more extroverted members of the class who would shine at the front. Jones arranged the twenty or so bodies in a single line, though, offering no refuge from the penetrating stares of those seated below. Samara took a deep breath and avoided the situation, staring down at the worn boards between her boots. She breathed in the scents of varnish, the cheap paint of the drama sets lined up behind her, and the musty crimson stage curtains. A quick check revealed Lily and Dale still waiting by the entrance as if to block her retreat, macabre guardians determined to see her face this. They both watched the stage, leaking dark fluids down their clothing and onto the floor. Lily grinned and waved. Samara returned to studying the boards of the stage.
“Thank you,” said Miss Jones.
The music abruptly stopped.
“Thank you all for coming today. I’m sure I speak for the very talented individuals standing behind me that we’re honoured to have you all attend on this very special occasion. Most of you have had the chance to enjoy the projects.” She gestured to the twin rows of mounted artwork. A few looked back, as if just realising they were there. “Believe me when I say that every person on this stage has worked tirelessly over the last several weeks to present their very best, some right up until the last minute.”
Don’t call on me, Samara begged. Don’t call on me!
“The standard this year has been very high,” continued Jones, “which I am sure will be reflected in the grades awarded at the close of term. Unfortunately for this lot behind me, that means a few weeks of waiting. Don’t worry, guys and girls, it will fly by. Trust me.”
A few on stage and in the audience chuckled.
“But grades can wait for the moment as we look to this year’s presentation of the Varden Gleave Art Prize. The college has been awarding this prize for almost twenty years, with many of our recipients furthering their education and making their mark on the world of visual art. It is an honour and a privilege to award the Varden Gleave to one deserving student today.”
Samara glanced up, sure Dale and Lily would have silently crept to the stage. No one else had acknowledged their attendance, and Samara feared causing a scene. Wouldn’t they love that? To cause her hysteria onstage? She’d done well so far, just another in the line.
In the back row, three figures sat beside each other. Two stared at the stage with stoic faces, smiling only beneath their chins. They had come, as Samara knew they would. How could they not? They played the social game exquisitely despite the dealing of a bad hand. How would they siphon off the interest in her work? Claim they had supported her, that she inherited it all from them, that they had convinced her to go on? Her parents sat in silence, skin grey, throats hanging open from the knife she clutched in her pocket. In the third seat, wearing a brand-new pink Nike coat, a disfigured Kelly watched the proceedings with disinterest. Not so involved when the day wasn’t all about her.
Samara looked away and rubbed her thumb up and down the handle of the art knife, seeking comfort in the familiar. Even she struggled to look at her sister for too long.
Samara imagined Miss Jones announcing her name. How the shock and disbelief would spread across their decaying faces. They’d probably applaud, just like the rest of the backslapping parents. Couldn’t have done it without them. Never doubted her.
“So without further ado,” said Jones. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”
Those gathered in the exhibition hall politely clapped, and the teacher waited for this to subside.
“Of all the wonderful pieces on display this year, one really stood head and shoulders above the rest. From the early designs and rough sketches, it was clear that something special was in the making. I will admit, I had concerns that the final version would not quite live up to the initial passion I saw in the first drafts, that a constant refining would dull its edge. This student did not just maintain that passion, but bordered on the obsessive, pouring dedication and precision to every brushstroke. Most importantly, this piece of art shows the very personality of this artist in intimate detail, dealing with the darkness, wonder, and concerns of the self we all try and bury. Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of the 1998 Varden Gleave is
Samara.
Samara?
She blinked, standing before her painting. Samara remembered painting the face. Her subject had become less the model from the rock magazine, all forced melancholy and conceited stare, with one sweep of her brush. She had worked tirelessly, hadn’t she? Squeezed out every last drop of her skill into her art: weeping eyes in which the viewer could almost see themselves, the parting of skin sharp enough to draw blood and have it drip from the canvas, the dark, ugly forms, twisted and tight, forming the sinew and muscle under the sliding face.
Yet the subject appeared to be frozen mid-smile. The girl with a torrent of black hair and a porcelain complexion. Not only had she again found refuge from her agony, but now took some pleasure in it.
“Samara?”
The joints of her fingers creaked from clutching the knife handle in her pocket, her thumb toying with the switch to pop the triangular blade.
“Samara, love. Please say something. It’s not the end of the world.”
She’d missed something, some small piece of the puzzle that had blocked the message of the painting, a tiny detail that stopped the realisation.
“Answer your mother! Look, you’re upsetting her. I don’t see what the point is. It’s only a bloody college art show! Anyone would think it’s the Turner Prize the way you’re carrying on!”