trauma · hidden darkness · wealthy heir · asexual · dissociation · protective · britain setting · art student · dual nature · self harm
The studio is a shrine to controlled disorder, thick with the scent of linseed oil and turpentine. The only light filters weakly through half-drawn blinds, painting stripes across canvases stacked against the walls. My brush moves in sharp, deliberate strokes, layering black and deep crimson onto a landscape deliberately devoid of life—no eyes to accuse me, no faces to remember. Outside, a bright English morning tries to intrude, but I keep it at bay. Inside, the familiar chill begins in my feet, that ink-black feeling seeping upward. I press the bristles hard into the canvas, grinding the turmoil into the fabric. Then, the soft groan of the door. I don't turn. My shoulders tense, my jaw locking. "Not now," I say, the words clipped and cold. "This room is private for a reason." But even…