The Art of Desire

Come to the barn only when the farmhouse lights go dark.

Her perfume fluttered from the textured pink surface. Sweet and sensual, Simon held her note close, breathing in her scent. He craved her far beyond any desire he experienced. Silken petals in summer wafting with the sickly sweetness of honey and citrus. A shiver like a bolt coursed through him. So desperate for her touch, the smell of her skin up close. Sweet Mary. Rolling his head back, he sucked in air untainted by Mary. Did she want him? A poor street urchin begging for coins on the side of the road. An act of rebellion, perhaps. Her father would never approve.

Mary cared. Furtive but unsure looks from afar days before she gathered the will to approach, dropping two gold coins into Simon’s hat with a wink and a smile that he returned before her villainous father seized her hand and dragged her from sight. Built like a bear, his beautiful daughter showed no resemblance. Rugged and wide, with a long mane twisted like gnarled roots of dead trees. His eyes, small and beady, narrowed into Simon. Massive pours bore in his filthy skin as if the he-bear never bathed.

Beautiful Mary. Willowy in a gown of cheap cotton, hugging her narrow hips and stirring wild thoughts in Simon. Old and worn sandals, black plastic peeling and soles splintering apart. Straw blonde hair hung loose around her slender neck, and vibrant blue eyes piercing his soul.

Simon chuckled inwardly. It was the Beauty and the Beast made real.

Indecent thoughts of sweet Mary held his dreams hostage every night for the week until he saw her again. Anxious, Mary hid behind a building, stealing glances at him while she waited. Simon smirked, cocking his head to draw her nearer. Her meek body sheltered behind a wooden beam. But the lovely Mary shook her head and remained far. He didn’t move despite his every fibre demanding it. He shifted onto the balls of his feet, unsure of his next move. Fearing his approach would scare her off. Fearing her father would wallop him if he saw.

Another week flew by with glimpses of his golden-haired angel before she found the courage to approach. She strode towards him with a focused gaze before her. Simon straightened himself. Her slim hands rummaged in her deep pockets, clinking with coins. Shuffling without pause, she flicked two coins weighing down a folded pink note into his hat, then continued her march down the street. Simon waited for her to turn the next corner, fingering the thick card before opening the note.

Come to the barn only when the farmhouse lights go dark.

Mary’s alluring scent haunted him for the entire day, clinging to his fingers and making him itch. He brushed the rough paper against his skin, grazing against his stubble. Impatient, he combed his fingers through his hair and checked his breath. Satisfied he wasn’t as repugnant as her father assumed, Simon made his way to the farmstead after dark, driven by desire.

Creeping through the bush, Simon grasped the razor wire surrounding the farmer’s property. A dull glow illuminated from the porch of the farmhouse and a warm, welcoming light shone through the cracks of the old barn doors. He felt like a predator, watching his prey and waiting, slinking through the tall grass. A single misstep could give him away. Without a doubt, if Mary’s father spotted him, he would emerge from the rundown house, clomping in his oversized boots, bearing his gnashing teeth and stroking the pump of his shotgun.

Simon waited over an hour in the darkness before the porch light switched off. His numb legs made him stumble as he vaulted over the wooden posts. His tattered pants tearing on the razor wire. Simon paid no mind, making his way towards the flickering glow beckoning him.

Frozen hands pressed against the splintering wooden door. A dull heat emanated from within, engulfing his form as he entered. Stifling. The hairs on his neck stood on end as gooseflesh traced across his arms.

Beautiful Mary. She sat on a stool surrounded by hay, a piece of canvas and an easel before her, and a chunk of charcoal stained her delicate porcelain hands.

‘Mary…’ Simon’s voice broke. She giggled at his nervousness. ‘I,’

She raised her hand to silence him, then waved him closer.

‘Do… you draw?’ He asked, hating himself for asking such an obvious question.

She smiled. Her crooked teeth stained golden to match her hair. Simon paid little attention. It was her scent, sweet like honey, luring him closer. Rising from the stool, she held out her hand. A shiver radiated through him. His clammy hand fitting in her rough palms. Flecks of charcoal painting his hand.

She guided him to a seat opposite her, facing the back of the easel. On uneven, sawed legs, it rocked as she bumped the canvas.

‘First,’ Her sultry voice made Simon’s body rigid, ‘Let me sketch you.’

‘Uh, yeah sure.’

She giggled. Melodious and smooth. ‘Try not to move, okay?’

With one hand, Mary stabilised the easel. In the other, she gripped the stick of charcoal like a pen and pressed it to the canvas. Her piercing blue eyes peaked at Simon. He fought against the urge to adjust himself on the uncomfortable stool.

She remained focused, concentrating, with a cute furrow dividing her brow. The barn’s dim light came from a single candle by her feet, nearing the end of its wick.

Simon’s restlessness was bubbling over. A strange desire washed over him, red hot like fury that burned deep in his loins. Bouncing his legs to quiet the storm, he averted his eyes when Mary peeked around the canvas. A sly smile growing on her thin lips as Simon stood with jerky movements on deadened legs. Desire thrust aside his fear. Unable to control himself, he approached Mary, stepping around her crooked easel.

He froze when his eyes glanced upon the canvas. Black pigment staining the textured surface. The smell of her hot flesh sticky with sweat blinding him. He saw his features etched into the canvas. His eyes replaced by blackened pits.

Simon stopped, lurching forward while holding himself back. This wasn’t him. Some kind of deranged animal enticed by pheromones. Those eyes showed a hollowness within in. Is this how sweet Mary saw him?

Rustling outside snapped Simon from his state. He stuttered and staggered backwards, falling into the dried hay. The barn door slammed open and the massive figure of Mary’s father illuminated by the candlelight. He stood over Simon, grinning with sharpened teeth behind chapped lips.

Mary didn’t move. She remained attentive to her sketch as her father hobbled into the barn. Each heavy step rattling the floor. Simon jumped to his feet, woozy and out of breath, but a single stroke across the canvas sent Simon to his knees.

Searing pain exploded from his ankles with all strength drained from them. Simon wailed, crying out for help as warm ribbons of blood flowed out, staining the hay as the father continued his approach. Blind panic seized Simon as he scurried away, sweeping his hands through the piles of hay for anything. His fingers found something firm and long. He tugged it, fighting against the crippling pain. Whatever he gripped was heavy and unrelenting.

Mary’s father bellowed. His knobbed fingers gripping Simon’s hair and hauling him up.

Simon screamed, pulling the object up with him. In the flickering candlelight, Simon realized he held the remains of a desiccated arm. Straight cuts severing it from its body, now outlined under the straw.

Her father dragged Simon across the floor, his blood trailing behind him. Wet straw clinging to his tattered pants.

Mary’s face remained unchanged, soft and kind, but the shine of malice shone through her eyes, glancing through him. He could see her artwork now. A black, powdery sketch of Simon sitting on the stool, expressionless. A thick line slashed over his ankles.

‘Again…’ Her father growled, strangling Simon’s hair.

‘P-please,’ Simon croaked through sobs, pleading to the kindness Mary had shown him on the street.

Her eyes delved into his as she raised her stick of charcoal to the canvas. The blunted tip grazing the sketches’ neck. She smiled, flashing her stained teeth now pointed digging into her lower lip. Flicking a light line across his neck. Simon felt the tinge, an itch as blood bubbled to the surface.

Weakened, Simon’s body felt limp, watching as Mary raised her charcoal once more. She pressed the tip hard against his throat. The scent of iron drowned out the summer flowers and honey.