- Alex Chapter 1: Painting
- Alex Chapter 2: The message
- Alex Chapter 3: Arrival
- Alex Chapter 4: Beliefs
- Alex Chapter 5: A tour
- Alex Chapter 6: My shack
- Alex Chapter 7: Painting
- Alex Chapter 8: Used
- Alex Chapter 9: Memories coming back
- Alex Chapter 10: relationships
- Alex Chapter 11: Believers and adepts
- Alex Chapter 12: Prophetess
- Alex Chapter 13: Painting do over
- Alex Chapter 14: The vision
All my life, I wanted to be a painter. You know, most girls dream of being a princess and drew the castle their dreamed to live in one day. Instead, I drew the castle because I liked drawing castles.
I didn’t want to live in one, just to paint one.
Of course, everyone laughed at me. It wasn’t just that I wasn’t very good at painting when I was a kid, but also that I came from a poor rural Georgia family.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents, but even if they lived a relatively good life, they could never support an artist kid trying to make it big.
Most kids dreaming to become an artist who do not have a natural talent just give up. I never did. I just drew more and more and more and when I was tired to drawing, I painted and then, drew some more.
To save on money, my parent actually painted a large wall on a barn with a special green slate painting so I could use chalk on it to draw some more.
When I didn’t have enough chalks, I just stole some from school.
And guess what? I got better.
By the time I entered junior high, I was actually considered talented. In high school, I was a prodigy.
My grades always suffered from my art, but I didn’t really care about getting that high school diploma anyway. When I dropped out of school, it just let me paint and draw full time, until I had amassed the perfect portfolio.
Granted, my parents were nervous for me. Neither of them had high school diplomas so that wasn’t the problem, but what scared them was that art was something foreign to them.
Still, when I was finally ready, I left for the Big Apple, New York City in search of a gallery, an agent, a patron, well, anyone willing to help me make more art.
I was firmly ready to sleep on the floor of a gallery at night just in exchange for some food and painting supplies. I didn’t care about money, I only cared about painting.
That’s how I met my wonderful rich boyfriend, who let me paint as I wished in his penthouse apartment near central park.
Honestly, when he saw me in the gallery a few months ago trying to convince them to give me a shot, I didn’t really care about him. I followed him because I was tired of living in that crummy apartment and being a waitress.
He wanted me to paint and wanted to be my boyfriend. What more could I ask? My priority was my art, if I was renting my body to a single cute rich guy to be able to make art, why would I say no?
For the first time since I had arrived in New York, 2 years earlier, I didn’t have to worry about paying rent, dragging my feet to work or even if I would have enough food to last the week.
Brian was nice, patient with me and helped me grow. He was both a serious shipping consultant (I had to learn what it was: he booked big container ships for clients) and an extreme sports addict.
We went bungy jumping, we jumped from the roof of his apartment to the next building. Did Parkour to scale down building’s emergency exists. Went camping on bicycles, riding hundreds of miles per day.
Most of the time, my muscles were sore, either from our sport or from our vigorous sex sessions.
But I could paint. Brian even ordered for his clients custom paintings either of their CEO, their office or sometimes, weird sex orgies with specific details to be included.
And now, Brian and I were deeply in love, and despite the fact he had to work a lot and often was on business trips, our good quality time together made up for it. Plus, his time away meant more time for me to paint quietly.
I thought I had a perfect life, that is, until four days ago, when I saw a message on our answering machine when coming back from a walk.Tags: re-edit