Scars on Canvas
667 Words
Scene 1: The Unfinished Portrait
Carson’s "gift" arrived at dawn: Sofia’s final portrait, draped in black silk.
"A token of trust," his note read. "Finish her story."
The moment Staria touched the canvas, the vision erupted:
Midnight at the Met Gala. Jason in a tuxedo, laughing with a senator. A waiter’s tray glints not champagne, but a dagger. The blade sinks into Jason’s ribs. Blood blooms across his shirt like peonies
Staria jerked back, gasping. The portrait now showed Jason’s face pale, dying.
Scene 2: Gala of Knives
Rain sheeted against the Met’s glass roof as Staria pushed through black-tied crowds, her emerald gown snagging on elbows. She’d hacked Jason’s calendar, bribed a guard he was here.
She spotted him near a Basquiat, flanked by men with hollow eyes. Bodyguards. Too far.
The waiter from her vision emerged tray lifted, steel flashing
"JASON!"
She lunged. The dagger meant for his heart slashed her shoulder instead. Jason spun, catching her as she fell. His roar shook the chandeliers:
"Kill that man! NOW!"
Gunfire. Screams. Blood hers smeared across his jaw.
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Scene 3: Blood Bond
In the panic room beneath the Met, Jason clamped a hand over Staria’s bleeding shoulder. His other hand tore his shirt into bandages.
"You i***t," he snarled, but his eyes were wild with fear. "You painted this yesterday the blood, the rain. Why come?"
Staria gripped his wrist. "I saw you die."
He stilled. Rainwater dripped from his hair onto her lips.
"I dreamt this too," he whispered. "You, bleeding in my arms. And then" He kissed her.
Not gentle. A claiming. A collision of terror and adrenaline. His tongue tasted of copper and champagne. When he pulled back, his thumb wiped her blood from his mouth.
"Now the prophecy’s changed. My blood on your skin. Your blood on mine. The curse doesn’t know who to kill."
Scene 4: The Safe House
Jason drove them to a Brooklyn brownstone, its walls lined with stolen Monets. In a bathroom lit by a single bulb, he stitched her wound.
"Carson hired that hitman," he said, thread pulling through her skin. *"He wants me dead before you finish painting his fate."
Staria hissed in pain. "What did Sofia paint about him?"
"Prison bars. But she missed the knife in the shadows." Jason’s hands trembled as he bandaged her. A first. "Your visions are stronger. That’s why he fears you."
He peeled off his blood-soaked shirt. A scar carved his ribs exactly where the dagger struck in her vision.
"You drew this scar last week," he said. "Now it’s real. Our dreams are knives, stellina. We cut each other’s futures into flesh."
Scene 5: The Burning Boy
Feverish from pain, Staria dreamt:
A villa in Sicily, engulfed in flames. A boy (Jason!) screaming, clutching a charred canvas. A man’s voice: "Art is weakness! Moretti men rule with guns, not brushes!"
She woke at 3 a.m. to find Jason asleep beside her on the only bed, a gun under his pillow. Moonlight gilded his scar.
Driven by the dream, she crept to an easel. Mixed her blood with paint.
The canvas ignited:
Young Jason weeping before a burning villa. The man his father holding a gasoline can.*
Jason’s hand seized her wrist. "How do you know that?" Raw agony in his voice.
"You dreamt it for me," she breathed.
He pressed her palm over the scar on his ribs.
"He burned everything I loved. Now he’ll burn you too."
Cliffhanger: The Raid
Dawn. Sirens wailed outside. Pounding on the door:
"FBI! Open up!"
Carson stood behind the agents, smirking. He pointed at Staria’s bloody canvas.
"That’s the Moretti villa she painted before it burned. Proof she’s Jason’s accomplice."
Jason shoved Staria behind him, reaching for his gun
"Don’t," she whispered, touching the fresh bandage on his ribs. "You’ll die if you fight. I dreamt it."
He froze. Agents swarmed. Handcuffs clicked.
Carson leaned in as they took Jason:
"You’ll paint prettier in prison, Staria. Less... prophet. More puppet."
- Writer
