for the sake of insanity

v. p o m p e i i ;

v . p o m p e i i ;

___

part one; the painting

I sit still, my hands folded over my white stola. My hair, dark brown and weaved with gold, lies over one shoulder. Everything is peaceful, serene. I take a deep breath, allowing the sun to fall over my face, warm me with its rays. It's my favourite time of the week.

"Will you sing for me?" Septimus is the only one who can ask this. He smiles, this gesture causing me to respond in kind.

He requests a song from me every time he comes to paint me. In the beginning, our sessions were silent, only interrupted by his soft directions to adjust. But then as we talked, I discovered his love for music. He asks this every week, and today, I have something special.

"Wait here," I tell him, even though there's nowhere for him to go. Septimus raises an eyebrow at me, his lips curling at the edges as I back out of the room, grinning. Then I turn around and run, racing up to my room. Lying on top of my top is a polished golden lyre. My mother used to play, but now any sound causes her head to throb, and she spends hours on end cooped up in her bed.

I carry the lyre to the front of the house where Septimus hunches over his painting. I haven't seen it yet, and I won't until it's complete. My father was the one who had ordered it done and sitting for hours on end had seemed unappealing until I met Septimus.

He watches me as I return to my seat, setting the lyre on my lap. I've never brought an instrument to accompany me before.

I position my fingers on the strings and turn to face him. "For you."

I am a young maiden, my story is sad
For once I was carefree and in love with a lad
He courted me sweetly by night and by day
But now he has left me and gone far away

Oh, if I was a blackbird, could whistle and sing
I'd follow the vessel my true love sails in
And in the top rigging, I would there build my nest
And I'd flutter my wings o'er his broad golden chest

As I sing, I watch him. The midday sun shines through his golden hair as he sits before me. His full lips curve upwards as his dark brown eyes take me in, to the block of wood before him, to me, to the block of wood.

While I play, Septimus sets down his brush and walks over. He watches me for a few more seconds, and as my fingers stumble into silence, he gently eases the lure from my hands and sets it down on the floor.

And with one hand holding mine, the other holding my cheek, he kisses me. It's not the first time he's done this, but every time he does, I'm made a new. Underneath his touch, I fall apart and come back together, only to be swept away by storms of emotion. Goosebumps rise like mountains where his fingers draw patterns on my skin. I am now his canvas, and from the way he looks at me, I am a masterpiece.

Septimus pulls away suddenly, returning to his seat. I am disoriented, like an opium addict with their drug taken away. He's a breath of fresh air, but now I suffocate. As the footsteps echo down the hall, I understand why he's moved. I busy myself with straightening the folds of my stola, perching the lyre on my lap. My fingers trace the engravings on the cool metal, using it to hide the blush on my cheeks.

My father walks into the room. Septimus stands up to greet my father, and I look up from the lyre. He ignores Septimus' outstretched hand and comes to kiss me on my forehead. "Hello, darling. How are you?"

"I'm well, Father," I reply, leaning forward to kiss his cheek. "How are you?"

"A little tired, but nothing to complain about," Father replies, moving to observe Septimus' painting. He frowns at me then back at the painting. "Put the lyre down, Herminia."