Jezebel, Darling

Jezebel, Darling By Sparrow

The day I kissed her was the day I won a silver ribbon and a bruise on my cheek.

My fingers were stained with vibrant ochre—a facsimile of the sunset in the disappointing seascape I entered for the painting competition. I thought I was creating a perfect halcyon. With sweeping yellows, strokes of pink, and brushes of white, I tore my heart open to enliven a vague childhood memory—hoping to evoke the same bittersweet nostalgia I sometimes choke on.

It wasn’t enough.

My right cheek throbbed as I slogged underneath the beating sun while my mother hurled mind-numbing insults at me. Her words were always the same; her derision, wholly unoriginal.

Jezebel, I ask you for one thing and you can’t even give it to me. Jezebel, are you fucking brain-dead? Jezebel, do you think I wanted you? I tuned her out, drowning in a deluge of confusion. Ms. Marie told me to paint a memory; that the judges were suckers for a sob story—a reminder of the youth they’ve lost. Yet, I still got second place. Was it my technique, then? Was I complacent? That can’t be. My artwork has always been perfect. Precise.

“Jezebel!” Mother’s shrill voice pierced through the whirlwind in my head. “Are you listening? I’m cutting your art classes. It’s not doing you any good, anyway.”

My stomach dropped like lead at her words, lugging nausea and pain far worse than any bruise on my skin.

“No!”

Mother’s beady eyes glared at me before she harrumphed and continued forward with her beak-like nose high in the air.

“I’m sorry, mother. You’re right, I failed today but the classes help—and it can continue helping. Recommendations from Ms. Marie can get me into a good art school.

Please, one more chance, and I’ll make you proud,” I pleaded, softening my voice as if an inferno wasn’t burning in my chest.

Mother’s beady eyes glared at me before she harrumphed and continued forward with her beak-like nose high in the air.

68

Jezebel, Darling By Sparr Jezebel, Darling By Sparrow ow

“Looks like you can think. I’ll send you to class and you can explain to your teacher your failure. Be grateful.” I bowed my head and gritted my teeth, forcing maelstroms of fury to ebb away.

At least I would be seeing Ms. Marie today.

The studio was cold, messy, with a myriad of textiles and materials cramping the space. I loved it. Whatever fiery monstrosity that clambered up my chest was snuffed out by the sight of my muse.

Ms. Marie, draped in effervescent red, stood in the middle of passionate chaos whilst holding a palette and a brush. Her dark hair had streaks of green and orange, a reflection of the orchard on the canvas in front of her. Acrylics and oils were beside her easel, haphazardly covered and already ruined.

“Ah, Jezebel! How did it go, darling?” She called out, the frown marring her brow fading away as her verdant eyes met mine.

I chuckled bitterly and said nothing, trudging to a stool nearby and sitting down—content with watching her.

Noticing my response, she gently set her tools down and approached carefully. Her eyes were studying the swirls of blue and purple that bloomed on my cheek. I wonder if she liked the hue.

She hummed under her breath as her calloused hand brushed my face. Unlike the room, it was warm and unfurled a different kind of heat at my core.

silver.” “I did what you told me to do,” I murmured. “I bared myself, just a bit, and I got

beautiful.” “Well, those pompous dicks don’t know what they’re doing. Your painting was

“Beautiful didn’t win me first place.”

“And first place is what truly matters?”

“Isn’t it?” I questioned. “To be recognized? To be lauded? To be loved?”

69

Jezebel, Darling By Sparrow

She continued to hum, drawing her rough fingers away. Stand, she commanded me, before directing me in front of her peaceful landscape. She took my hand in hers—calloused, balmy, and alive. Her floral perfume wafted into my nostrils, drowning my senses in heady intoxication of the forbidden.

Her painting was as enticing as she was. It was aglow with splashes of nature’s shades, drawing viewers to a memory they’ve never been to—one that they will always ache for yet never have.

“Destroy it,” she hissed, her saccharine tones turning cold and unforgiving as she transformed into passion’s savage mistress.

I whipped my head to her in confusion and was met with flinty expectation. Whatever demon I hoped to bury in her comfort enkindled at her cool demeanor. But would I disappoint her too? No.

With trembling hands, I picked up the brush and dipped it in crimson. Words laced with venom slew behind me, wrenching ugliness onto the canvas. She jeered of my failure; of my mother’s hate; of my father’s abandonment. I felt myself get possessed by a frenzy. I slashed carnage and vitriol into her piece—vomiting resentment and vexation until her idyllic scene sunk into the background of my animus.

After I finished, my body tumultuously shook and heaved for air in front of the butchered masterpiece. Salt tracks stung my bruise and blood dripped from my lip. I glanced at my tormentor expecting disgust, but was met with a kind smile.

With a crazed boldness, I pressed my lips to hers, only to taste the cloying sweetness of iron fuelling my intent to crash in a glorious blaze. Whatever perfection I’d carved into myself it was nothing compared to her damning laugh. I would scorch and smolder and eventually flicker out, but to taste her would be worth it.

creation. She grabbed my face with tender paint-stained hands, tilting it to my infernal

“See, darling? Whatever perfect saint your mother created is false. See the gore of garnet, the sable void, the envious chartreuse, and sickly pale canary?” she whispered in my ear, low and rough.

“That ruin is you.”

70