Novel & Cerita Edward Scissorhands Painting

Elara’s POV, I touch the painting to find it’s still wet, and I hum. “When did you paint this?” I hear him stand up from his stool and feel him stand behind me. His presence unknowingly overwhelms me. “After the night of the gala.” I look back at the canvas and twist my lips. There’s a hand. Not a human one, not entirely. It’s large and suspended in the shadows like it belongs to something that exists above consequence. From its fingers, thin, barely visible strings fall, and they stretch downward into the bodies below.

But hearing about a thing and seeing it are different species of experience. Seven paintings. All hands. My hands. Holding a paper bag. Resting on a counter. Cradling a phone. Wrapped around a coffee cup. Pressing against glass. Curled in sleep. And the last one, the largest: a man's hand held open, palm up, with five tiny fingers gripping the index. The paint was thick on that one, layered, reworked. She'd painted it more than once. I stood in front of it for a long time.

And why did Corian seem to be the center of it all? But his firm hand locked around my hip made me feel safe. Safer than I wanted to admit. Five more steps in and my whole body froze. My hand flew to my chest like I could hold my heart still. “Oh my God, is that a real Marco Grosvoc….” A dark, savage painting at the center of the room pulled me like a magnet. A man painted in heavy shadows, blood red streaks. A single thick tear of blood rolling down one eye. That art stole my breath. Stole the whole world away. Nothing else existed.

I had spent two years falling in love with a ghost, and now that the ghost had a face, a name, and a chest that felt like solid marble when I was pinned against it? I wasn't going anywhere. I dipped a finer brush into the gold paint, leaning back over the canvas to add the final, sharp highlights to the silhouette's hands. Strong hands. Capable hands. The kind of hands that could lock you to a bar or keep you perfectly safe from the rest of the world.

The crew, human as they were, had been at it for too long and were beaten. Soon, the room cleared out, leaving only the painting, half-revived and softly glowing in the quiet light. Then, a shadow loomed, scissors in hand, poised to strike at the artwork.

"My hand hurts. I can't write." His face darkened. "Alessia, don't test my patience." "I really can't," I held out my hand for him to see. "Look, I can barely hold a pen." As he stood there silently, Laura descended the stairs, clearly having spent hours getting ready. "Mr. Schroder," she said shyly, handing him a framed canvas. "I painted this portrait of you last night. I hope you like it." Edmund took the painting and studied it, a flicker of appreciation in his eyes. "This is very well done." Then he turned to me, his gaze filled with disappointment. "You should take a page out of your sister's book."

Just his hand and the specific warmth of it. "The handwriting series," I say. "Yes." "I want to start properly this week. Not sketches. The actual work." I look at the city. "I have the photographs from Edmund and the Glasgow translator and Maya and Patrick. I have the sketch of your hands from the bridge." I pause. "I need one more before I begin." "Which one?"

At this moment, I was standing on high scaffolding, coloring a medieval oil painting. My foot slipped. Cassian blurred into an afterimage and caught me securely in his arms. This was the third time this week. "It seems I shouldn't let you touch such high murals," he chuckled softly, carrying me safely to the ground. His eyes fell on the two terrifying scars on my wrists, and his gaze darkened. I smiled bitterly, not trying to hide them. "A parting gift from my ex-husband. A masterpiece of his cruelty. It's hideous, isn't it?"

“I mean… second time in two days. Same city, same me. The odds are statistically suspicious.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “It’s a small island.” “New York? Small?” I laughed. “You’re joking.” He didn’t smile, but something in his eyes softened. Just a fraction. I tilted my head toward the paintings. “What do you think of these?” He glanced at the canvases like he was seeing them for the first time. “They’re loud.” “Loud,” I repeated, grinning. “That’s a good word for it. I think they’re screaming.”

I went to take a shower after dinner. It was then that I suddenly saw a weird palm print on the glass window. Someone must have left that palm print behind with their soapy hand while taking a shower. The print was quite faint and white against the shiny glass on the window. It was obviously a woman's handprint, and it wasn't mine. My hand was a little bigger than this. So I couldn't have been the one who put it there. It couldn't have been my daughter, Bella Quinton, either. She had tiny hands and wasn't even tall enough to reach that spot yet. Also, it definitely did not belong to my husband, Rory Quinton.