Part 2The Masterpiece Painted In My Blood

My body felt impossibly light.

Suddenly, the gray veil lifted. It was as if someone had turned the saturation dial on the universe all the way up. Colors exploded everywhere—violent, beautiful, and overwhelming.

I saw my painting, a macabre masterpiece of crimson. I saw the girl on the floor—my body—tangled in a pool of brilliant, terrifying scarlet.

My first thought wasn't horror. It was joy.

So, this is red.

I finally understood. I wanted to run out and tell her. I wanted to show her that I finally saw what she saw.

But then I saw Lydia. She was standing outside the studio, turning the key in the lock from the outside.

"Willa, you stay in there until you can tell the difference," she called out, her voice cold. "I’m not letting you out until you learn."

It was a familiar routine. Whenever Thomas was away at a gallery opening or a teaching seminar, Lydia turned into a jailer. She would lay out the swatches and her voice would start soft, deceptive.

"Willa, honey, you aren't colorblind. You're just not trying. Let's look again."

She would coax me, and I would reach out, my heart hammering against my ribs. I would stare at the gray cards and try to read her face. If her lips tilted up, I was close. If her eyes narrowed, I was failing.

"Tell me. Which one is this?"

Her voice would flatten—the calm before the hurricane.

"I... I think..." I would reach for a different card, but she would grab my hand, her nails digging in.

"Don't you know?" she’d whisper. "This is the color of that dress your father bought you. Your favorite dress. What color is it, Willa?"

I couldn't answer.

Before the tears could fall, her rage would erupt. "You useless, ungrateful brat! I’ve spent years on you! Why can't you just be blind? If you were blind, it would be easier! I wish I’d never had you!"

I learned to survive. I started making tiny, microscopic pinpricks on the back of the swatches to mark them. When her mood collapsed, I would find my mark and say the word "yellow" or "blue" with feigned confidence.

She would let out a sharp breath, her posture softening. She would pull me into a tight, suffocating hug. "I knew it. My Willa is a genius. Just like your father. He’s so proud of you. We can’t let him down, okay?"

"Okay," I would whisper, the lie sticking in my throat.

But as the color palettes grew more complex—moving from twenty-four shades to forty-eight, then to professional pigments—I couldn't keep up with the marks. I started failing again.

"If I come back and see one more mistake, you’re done," she said today, walking away without a backward glance.

I followed her—or rather, my spirit did. She was going to pick up Thomas.

His fame had skyrocketed over the last few years. He was the darling of the contemporary art scene, and today was the opening of his solo exhibition downtown.

When Lydia arrived, he was in the middle of an interview with a sleek woman in a power suit.

"Yes, I have a daughter," Thomas was saying, his smile warm and genuine. "She’s incredibly talented. She has my eyes for detail. She’s my greatest pride."

The sun caught his face, making him look like a hero from a storybook. Beside him, Lydia froze. She clutched the fabric of her skirt so hard her knuckles turned white. She was terrified.

Thomas finished the interview and walked toward her. "Lydia? Where’s Willa? Why didn't you bring her?"

Lydia blinked, her eyes wet with unshed tears. "Thomas... I think we should send her away. To that boarding school in Switzerland. For her art."