I Painted My Own Funeral

This was the eighteenth time Virginia had brought her latest distraction home, demanding I paint them in the heat of their intimacy.

Everyone in the room expected a scene. They wanted tears, broken glass, a husband driven mad by humiliation.

Instead, I sat before the canvas, listening to their hushed, breathless giggles, and finished the piece without a single tremor in my hand.

Wyatt, one of Virginias sycophants, let out a dry, mocking chuckle. "Come on, Virginia. Your husband has the patience of a saint. Most men would have thrown us out by now."

Virginia casually buttoned her silk shirt, her lip curling into a familiar, lazy sneer. "With what authority? The Cross family empire is dead. I paid off his familys debts. Even his late mothers studio is registered under my name."

She glanced at me, her eyes cold. "Without me, Allen is nothing."

I set my brush down and offered my standard invoice. "A custom bedroom scene. Three hundred thousand dollars."

Virginia didn't blink. She slid a check across the table, followed by a thick envelope of divorce papers.

"Christian is sensitive," she said, her voice smooth and devoid of warmth. "He hates hiding. He feels cheapened by this arrangement. I need you to step aside for a while. Once he feels secure, Ill find a place for you again. As my kept man, of course."

The room held its breath, waiting for the crack in my armor.

I simply picked up the pen and signed my name on the dotted line.

The smugness vanished from Virginias face. "Are you serious?"

I capped the pen and met her gaze. "Completely. You and Christian deserve each other. I'm done playing my part in this twisted little game."

Virginias fingers hovered over the signed papers, frozen. She stared at me, searching my face for the usual signs of desperation.

When she realized I wasn't bluffing, she let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Fine. But remember, Allenyou leave with nothing. Not a single thing from The Arbors belongs to you."

"Fine by me," I said.

This place had never been a home. It was a gilded cage, and every luxury she threw my way was just another link in the chain.

My indifference irritated her. Just as she opened her mouth to snap at me, Wyatt chimed in with a smirk. "Nice strategy, Allen. Usually, Christian throws a tantrum and Virginia runs back to him. Now you're trying the reverse psychology trick. Let's see how long she lets you pretend to be strong."

The flicker of doubt in Virginia's eyes hardened back into cold arrogance. "You're a bit too old for these games, Allen. Christian is young; I tolerate his whims. But you trying to threaten me with divorce? It's pathetic."

She grabbed my chin, forcing me to meet her icy glare. "Look at yourself. You aren't the golden boy of the Cross family anymore. Without me, how do you even survive?"

I didn't pull away. I kept my voice flat. "I still have my hands. I can paint."

"Paint?" She scoffed, as if I'd said something hilarious. "Everyone in our circle knows you belong to me. Who do you think would dare buy a canvas from Virginia King's discarded husband?"

I was tired of this. Tired of her endless resentment. She hated me because I had broken her heart years ago when she was penniless, telling her I couldn't marry someone with nothing to her name. She never knew the truth. She only knew how to make me bleed for it now that she was on top.

"I signed," I said, looking past her. "Give me the keys and the deed to my mother's studio."

"You want the keys?" Virginia smiled, a vicious, slow curl of her lips. "Christian wants a portrait. Of us, and the child we're expecting. Paint it to his liking, and the studio is yours."

The room went dead silent.

Christian leaned against her, a delicate, fragile thing. "Virginia, please, don't pressure Allen. He just signed the divorce papers. He must be hurting." He gently stroked her lower belly. "And you shouldn't stress yourself. Think of the baby."

"The baby." My chest tightened.

Virginia caught the subtle shift in my posture and smiled triumphantly. "Surprised? Christian is different from you, Allen. He actually wants to give me a family. You never could."

She pulled him down onto the sofa. "Paint," she commanded.

The lights were dimmed slightly, focusing on them. I stood before the easel, forced to capture their domestic bliss. The room filled with whispered mockeries from her friends. "The ex painting the new husband and the unborn child... Virginia really knows how to win."

I blocked out the noise, focusing entirely on the canvas.

Until Virginia ordered the servants to bring out a canvas covered in a white sheet.

When she pulled the cloth away, my heart stopped.

It was my mother's portrait. Her final self-portrait before she died.

Virginia handed me a palette knife. "Christian loves the composition of this piece. Scrap her face off. Paint his in its place."

A suffocating silence fell over the room.

"That's brutal, Virginia," someone whispered, suppressed laughter in their voice. "Making him desecrate his own mother's memory? Pure evil."

Christian bit his lip, playing the saint. "Virginia, please, don't. Allen will hate me."

"He wouldn't dare," Virginia said, her eyes locked on mine. "Do it, Allen. And you get your keys."

I looked at my mother's gentle eyes on the canvas. It was the only piece of her I had left. But Virginia wanted to destroy it, to destroy "me".

I took the palette knife. My hand shook, but I forced it steady.

The first stroke of thick, white paint smeared across my mother's cheek. I systematically erased her eyes, her nose, her smile, replacing them with Christian's sharp, delicate features.

When it was done, I set the knife down. "Are you satisfied, Ms. King?"

Virginia stared at the canvas, a strange, burning anger flashing in her eyes. She hadn't expected me to actually do it.

Without a word, she snatched a manila envelope from her assistant and hurled it at my face. The sharp corner cut my cheek, and the envelope hit the floor, spilling the keys and deeds.

"Take it and get out," she hissed. "Let's see what your art is worth when you're begging on the streets."

I knelt, gathered the papers, and stood up.

"Allen," she called out as I reached the door. "If you walk out today, don't ever think of crawling back. Even if you beg on your knees, I won't take you back."

I smiled faintly. "I won't."

This time, I was leaving for good.

I didn't leave immediately. I went to the small storage room at the end of the hall where my mother's remaining things were kept. This place was barely a roomjust a dusty closet Virginia didn't use.

In our three years of marriage, I never had a proper bedroom. I slept on the sofa or in the studio.

I packed her sketchbooks into a worn leather suitcase. At the bottom was a small tin box containing remnants of my youth with Virginia.

A sticky note from when she got her first minor investment lay inside: "Allen, when I'm rich, I'll buy you the biggest studio in the world. You'll only ever paint what you love."

I had believed her. That's why, when my family went bankrupt, I chose to bear the hatred and leave, rather than drag her down with me. I had sold my own award-winning paintings anonymously, mortgaged my mother's studio, and funneled every dime into her failing startup. My mother, seeing me drive myself to ruin, fell ill from the stress and passed away a year later.

When Virginia became powerful and demanded I marry her, I felt a toxic mix of joy and deep, suffocating guilt. How could I deserve happiness when my mother died because of my sacrifices?

I took the sticky note, lit it with a match, and watched it turn to ash.

I went downstairs.

Rain was pouring outside. Two security guards blocked the exit.

"Mr. Cross, Ms. King ordered that nothing from this estate leaves with you."

"These are my personal belongings," I said.

"Allen," Christian's voice drifted down the stairs. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, Virginia right beside him. "If they're yours, you shouldn't mind a quick search."

I looked at Virginia. "You gave me the keys. The rest is just my mother's old sketchbooks."

"We'll see about that," she said, her voice devoid of any warmth.

I gripped the handle of my suitcase. "Virginia, do you really have to do this?"

"Why should I believe anything you say?" she sneered. "You promised you'd never leave me when things got tough. Yet you ran away the moment my world started to crumble."

She gestured to the guards.

They ripped the suitcase from my hands and threw it onto the marble floor. The zipper burst, spilling my clothes and my mother's sketchbooks everywhere.

I lunged forward to grab her main sketchbook, but a guard pinned my arm. The blue-bound book slid across the polished floor, stopping right at Christian's feet.

He picked it up, flipping through the pages. "Oh, Virginia, these drawings are beautiful. Can I keep them?"

Panic flared in my chest. "Don't touch that!" I yelled, breaking free and shoving him back.

Christian squealed in theatrical terror, his hand slipping. The sketchbook flew out of his grasp, landing face-down in the muddy puddles of the driveway.

My mind went entirely blank. My mother's last hand-drawn sketches.

I ran out into the rain to retrieve it, but Christian's leather shoe stepped firmly onto the cover, grinding it into the wet gravel.

"Oops," he whispered, looking down at me. "Don't look at me like that, Allen. You're scaring me."

Virginia rushed out, pulling Christian behind her. "It's just an old book! I'll buy you a dozen more!"

"You can't buy this, Virginia!" I screamed, my voice cracking.

"Don't you dare raise your voice at me!" she snapped.

I knelt to pull the book from under Christian's shoe. Suddenly, Christian let out a sharp cry. "Virginia, he pushed me"

Before I could react, Virginia grabbed my right wrist with terrifying force, twisting it. "Have you lost your mind, Allen?!"

The pain was blinding, but I refused to let go of the wet sketchbook. "Let go!"

Instead of letting go, she shoved me backward.

I lost my footing on the wet tiles, my shoulder smashing into a glass display cabinet on the porch. The glass shattered.

Instinctively, I put my right hand down to brace my fall.

A jagged piece of thick glass sliced deep into my wrist, severing muscle and nerve. Agony exploded up my arm, and bright red blood began to gush onto the white stone.

The world went completely silent.

The anger on Virginia's face froze. She stared at my right hand, her face turning pale as she watched the blood pool around us.

She reached out, her hands trembling. "Allen..."

I looked at her, my vision blurring. "Are you satisfied now?"

My hand was numb, cold, and heavy. I knew, with absolute certainty, that I would never hold a paintbrush again. Twenty years of practice, of pouring my soul into canvases, ended in a splash of rain and blood.

Virginia took a step toward me, but Christian suddenly gasped, clutching his head. "Virginia... my head... I feel dizzy..."

Virginia turned back immediately. Christian was leaning against the doorframe, tears streaming down his face. "Allen lunged at me... I was so scared... I know he didn't mean to, but..." He collapsed into her arms.

The brief panic in Virginia's eyes hardened back into disgust as she looked at me. "You'd even hurt a pregnant, defenseless person to get back at me?"

I lay in the mud, shivering from pain and shock. "I didn't touch him."

"Enough," she said coldly. "You think mutilating yourself will make me feel guilty? Stop acting, Allen."

She turned to her assistant. "Get him out of here. Send him to Stonehaven Psychiatric Facility. Let them teach him some discipline."

She carried Christian to her car without looking back.

The guards dragged me through the gravel. The pain in my wrist made me black out before they even threw me into the back of the transport van.

I woke up in a sterile room. A male nurse approached my bed with a syringe.

I saw my chart hanging nearby. A bright red sticker read: "ALLERGIC WARNING: DO NOT ADMINISTER."

I thrashed, trying to escape, but Christian's voice drifted from the hallway. "Allen always has trouble staying quiet. Give him the shot. It'll keep him peaceful."

Guards pinned me down. The cold needle pierced my skin.

Within seconds, my lungs seized. I couldn't breathe. My throat closed up, and the harsh fluorescent lights began to spin into darkness.

I reached out with my right hand, but the fingers refused to move.

Three days later, Virginia arrived at Stonehaven.

Wyatt looked uneasy. "Virginia, was sending him here a bit too much? He's still your husband."

Virginia scoffed. "My people watched him. Nobody would dare lay a hand on him. It's just a lesson."

But the facility director stood before her, pale and sweating.

"Ms. King... Mr. Cross had a severe anaphylactic reaction three nights ago. We tried to resuscitate him, but... he's dead."