I started looking forward to our talks as the days stretched into weeks. My existence was made less lonely by Lexi’s humor and wit, and gradually the void inside of me started to close.
Then everything changed one afternoon. When I entered the garage without knocking, I was looking for something. I was stunned by what I saw.
Every single one of me—grotesque replicas of me—was painted on the floor. In one, my eyes were filled with blood, while in another, I was chained. One of them showed me in a coffin.
I felt sick to my stomach. Did Lexi really see me like this? I addressed her at supper that night. “What on earth are those paintings, Lexi?”
She glanced up at me in surprise as her fork clattered on her plate. “What are you discussing?” “I witnessed them—my paintings. The coffin, the shackles, the blood. Do you think that of me?
Her face became white. She stumbled, “I didn’t mean for you to see those.” “Well,” I responded, my voice icy, “I did.” “Do you think that of me?”
