Shoot The Messenger.

The painter dipped her brush into a cup of water, then dabbed it delicately onto her pallet of paints. The color red she chose turned to a liquid bright as blood, melting onto the bristles like molten candle wax. With a precise, controlled stroke, she pressed the brush against her canvas, scarring it with a bold stripe, like a cut, right across its surface. How fitting, she thought, pleased at the mental image. Sitting down to paint was, in many ways, like sitting down and slicing open a vein.

The picture was always already there, on the canvas, long before she painted it. She just had to find it. Then the colors came to her and if everything was perfect, she’d get a finished painting out of it all. If she couldn’t find it, if the colors didn’t come to her, though…well, she might as well get up and do laundry because there was no use in forcing it.

Today, it turned out, was not a day to paint.

She sighed, giving up and replacing the brush to its cup of water. Then she stretched and stood before the open window facing the woods. The gentle wind that bit her face with the first traces of autumn smelled like burnt pine, a smell that always reminded her of her father. Fall in general reminded her of her father. Drying out, shriveling up, turning from bright and new to old and detached.

She hugged herself, settling into a chair by the window, wishing Brian was home. But he’d be gone for another five days yet. And he’d been right, of course, when he’d said space would be good for them. Hadn’t she, in fact, been looking forward to him leaving, looking forward to having some time for herself, to paint and to think? Hadn’t she taken comfort in the fact that, as he left with wet eyes, she didn’t need him half as much as he needed her? But then, if all that were true, why did she miss him this much?

It was true that she didn’t need him. If her cold, unyielding father had taught her anything, it was not to need anyone. Still, she wanted Brian. She cared about Brian. Lately, she’d even been toying with the notion that she loved Brian. She might as well need him.

Brian had never been her match made in heaven or her knight in shining armor. He aggravated and saddened her more than he charmed her. He could hardly save himself, much less any damsel in distress. In fact, if he’d been anyone else’s but hers, she would have hated him. His hair was always falling into his eyes and he was constantly adjusting it with his fingers to make it fall just right. The hair itself was jet black, dyed that way every couple of months. When he smiled, his whole face changed, the way an empty room changes once it’s filled with people. But the smile was always rare and fleeting, and when he wasn’t smiling, he looked bored, tired, mainly sad. He fidgeted a lot—tapping his fingers, picking things up and rolling them around in his palms, playing with his lip ring, sometimes until it bled. He was always drinking something—usually alcohol or tea—and he could make you laugh without breaking a sweat. He could be sweet when he wanted, but he talked about himself too much and made jokes at all the wrong times. He got easily excited about things, which could be nice, except it meant he got equally as easily sad. Most of the time, he was his own worst enemy. But still, he checked himself out in every available reflective surface, and he made his jokes and swore too much, and you’d never know unless you had to how insecure and sad and selfish he could be.

They were polar opposites, it seemed. She was thoughtful; he had a memory as feeble as his empathy. She guarded her words carefully; he spewed half-baked and sometimes cruel opinions out without thinking anything through. He made her so angry at times, she wondered how she managed to go through a day without killing him. And yet despite his flaws, it was Brian she kept coming home to, Brian she knew would keep coming home to her. He saw her when no one else seemed to, and it very nearly made up for everything.

She didn’t realize she was nodding off until she was jolted awake hours later by the ringing phone. Stumbling into the dark kitchen, she picked up the wretched thing, cursing whoever would call so late—past midnight, in fact. “Hello?” she mumbled into the receiver.

“Is this Brian Turner’s residence?” an unfamiliar voice asked.

“Yes,” she responded slowly.

“And who is this?”

“Brian lives with me,” she said, and that was all.

“This is Dr. Newton at the Cambridge Memorial Hospital,” the voice said, and her heart caught tightly in her throat. She could feel the very walls around her tremble, as if their home was merely made of cards, as if any small whisper of wind could cause the entire fragile thing to collapse. “Brian was in a car accident earlier this evening.”

“But—but he’s okay,” she choked out. “He’s fine, right, and I can come get him—”

“I’m so sorry,” the voice said, not sounding as sorry as it should. “He’s alive, but I’m afraid he’s very much injured.”

“Injured how?”

“Essentially, he’s brain dead. We’re keeping his heart beating and his lungs working, but there’s an extremely small amount of brain activity going on.”

“But there is some?” she asked. “There’s hope?”

“There’s always hope. However, situations like these…it’s doubtful you’ll ever know the man you used to know.” A pause, and then came another useless, almost insulting, “I’m sorry.” This bodiless voice knew nothing about sorrow. It knew nothing about Brian, not how she knew him anyway. It didn’t know the way his smile, though appearing only on his lips, could light up his eyes, or how she always melted a little when he said her name, or how even during the worst of fights, she slammed a few doors and cursed everything from his messy hair to his birthday and still knew she wouldn’t change a thing even if she could. It knew nothing. It didn’t know that just hours ago she’d kissed Brian goodbye without worry, without hesitation, so certain he would come back to her. And now…he was gone. Not physically. But all the same, the person she might as well have needed was gone.

Hanging up the phone, she found herself walking, slow and careful like an elderly woman. Walking and not heading anywhere. She recalled how Brian’s face had looked right before he left. Sweet, sad, full of promises. Full to bursting with every promise they’d ever made each other. She didn’t need to see that face again to know it was different. Everything was different. The very ground beneath her was different. And still, she walked. Outside, across the freezing lawn, into the shed, darkness billowing around her, as thick as a mattress. Why had Brian gone, anyway? He didn’t even like to hunt that much. His work friends got him into the sport. Why had he gone? Had it been just to get away from her? Had he, then, finally gotten his wish?

She reached out without seeing, without even feeling, tenderly picking up one of Brian’s hunting pistols. It was cold and heavy in her hand. And then, the artist who needed no one, the woman who’d nearly been in love, put a bullet into her head.