I always enjoy writing from prompt lists and challenges. Forcing–I mean, enjoying the process and the thrill of trying to keep up with daily prompts. And this month, I’m trying to do Comfy-vember!

Well.

I got behind.

So I decided to just smush five prompts into one story–which is allowed–and such, Splotches of PainT was born!

Splotches of PainT is a backstory short story from Arebella’s Point of View (Victor Hunt’s mother). It’s half a comfort drabble, half an angsty drabble, and 100%… well, very fun and sweet to read.

Word Count: 1.3k

Content Warnings: Arebella’s husband is mildly physically rough with her (nothing graphic, he could be a lot nicer though). Their house smells like smoke from cigarettes. Arebella has a kitchen knife at one point. Lukas is way too cute.

Note: Since Victor is an alias he uses from himself, he’s called Lukas here… which is also not his real name but I must withhold the spoilers >:)

The world rushes by in a blur. Shimmering silver from the stars, rich greens from the fake trees littered about the streets, deep blues from the midnight air.

Lukas sits with his face pressed against the glass, like always. Eyes bright with wonder. I lean back against the seat cushions. Watching him. Hoping that light would never fade from his eyes… even through everything James put us through. Hoping he would keep that wonder.

I push to my feet, ignoring the splatter of pain spiking in my stomach, and step over to him, crouching by his chair. He turns to me, a wide grin stretched across his rosy cheeks. Grey eyes, sparkling with wonder. 

“Mama, look! It’s like your paintings!” He says, eagerly turning back towards the window and pressing a finger to the glass. I match his smile, gazing out the window.

It did look like paint—gorgeous swirls of color, whirling through the air in a rush of adventure and spirit and creation.

“Maybe you should paint something like that, hm?” I say, poking his stomach. He giggles, catching my hand and clinging to it as the ship slows, hovering over the landing pad on our roof, then humming to the ground. 

“Home sweet home.” I say softly, scooping him up into my arms. He grins, wrapping his arms around my shoulders and pressing his cheek to my neck. 

“Can we go paint, Mama?” He whispers, voice sweet against my ear.

“After I make dinner. You can get started—make some sketches for me, okay?” I whisper, pressing a kiss to his forehead, then ducking out of the ship. The wind whirls through the air, whipping my hair into my face as I hurry across the rooftop to the backdoor. Lukas lets out a whoop, spreading his tiny arms and grinning up at the fake sunlight filtering through the clouds.

I smile, pushing open the door and ducking into our home, playfully cupping my hand over his mouth. Listening to see if my husband was home, to see if my child could keep being happy or if he would have to silence himself. Again.

The halls smells of wispy smoke—tinted with cinnamon. A meager cover-up. The half a dozen vases of fragrant jasmines and roses hardly made a difference, but at least they brighten the room. The house stays silent, so I pat Lukas’s head, setting him down and pushing him towards my art study. “Go on, I’ll be up after I get dinner done.” I say, smiling again.

“Okay!” He cheers, pattering towards the study and disappearing inside.

I relax, pulling my hair into a neat bun as I hurry down the stairs to the main room, stabbing a black clothespin into my dark locks to hold them still. I pluck a dead petal from one of the jasmines on my way to the kitchen, holding it to my nose. Breathing in the last wisps of its sweet life.

The front door slams behind me. I jump, the petal tumbling from my fingertips as I turn around. James whirled through the living room, his briefcase clenched in his fist.

I glance away, sucking in a little breath to calm the race of my heart, and step into the kitchen, plucking a container of rice from the cabinet, then stepping over to the fridge.

His footsteps stop near the kitchen door. I can feel his gaze on me, boring into my back. I stay quiet, busying myself with pulling a tray of marinated chicken from the fridge, setting it out onto the counter along with a couple red peppers, a lemon, a bundle of cilantro—

“Where were you?”

I raise an eyebrow, turning to look at him, the cilantro rustling in my hand. “Sorry?”

His eyes narrow. A cold, steely grey. “I said, where were you?” He says, stepping towards me and tossing his suitcase onto the table with a clatter. I flinch, setting the cilantro down as he rounds the counter. 

“Out. Looking at art.” I lie, tilting my hair. “Inspiration calls.”

He scoffs, stopping two feet away from me. “Really?” He drawls.

I nod, smiling faintly at him. “It was wonderful. There’s this new exhibition in town on modern graffiti—”

“I don’t think you have time for graffiti.” He snaps, slamming his fist down on the counter. I flinch again, my gaze snapping to the ground. “Not with the house in shambles like this. If we had company over right now, I’d be ashamed. And rice and chicken again? That’s the second time this week. You’d think I don’t care for this house, or you, with that kind of food.”

“Well—what do you want, then?” I say, keeping my voice light as I turn back towards the vegetables, grabbing a knife and cutting board from the drawer. “I can head out to the store tomorrow and—”

His hand latches around my wrist, squeezing sparks of pain against my bones. I stop, glancing at him.

“Don’t you look away from me when I’m talking to you.” He growls, eyes boring into mine.

I hold his gaze, mind flickering between his crushing grip on my wrist and the knife I’m gripping in my hand.

I set the knife down.

Turning towards him again—“Alright. What do you want, dear, I’ll try to make it tomorrow.”

He scoffs, releasing my wrist and striding off towards the living room. “How about a clean house for once?.” He mutters, snatching up his briefcase and storming towards his study, disappearing down the hall. I watch him go, rubbing my wrist. My shoulders relax as he slams the door to his study. 

There. At least two hours of quiet before he storms out again. Three hours if I brought him a drink, though that wasn’t worth the consequences afterwards. Not tonight.

Two hours was plenty of time. 

I turn back towards the cutting board, chopping up the peppers, cilantro, a couple onions, then tossing them into the tray of chicken and sliding the whole thing into the oven. 

There.

I set a timer for thirty minutes of cook time, then hurry back up the stairs, towards my study, snagging my apron from the wall before bursting into the room.

The walls dance with color—all vivid cyan and explosive magenta and blossoming emerald. Buckets and splotches of paint are littered all about the room, intertwined with stacks of canvases, rolls of papers, cups of brushes and old tea mugs and notebooks filled to the brim with life. Circles of colors spiral up the walls. Floor to ceiling windows flood the room with the hazy light of the sunset, with gauzy lavender curtains and delicate string of beads fluttering and jingling with the whispers of cool wind floating through the room. 

Peace.

Lukas sits in the middle of it all, the tip of his tongue peeking out of a determined frown as he scribbles with a bright purple crayon in his sketchbook. He hums a little tune under his breath—one of our favorites, to sing together. I grin, shutting the door behind me. “How’s it going, Lukas?”

He glances over his shoulder, a bright smile breaking across his face. “Mama!”

I laugh, sweeping over and pulling him into my arms. He giggles, holding up his sketchbook, to reveal a kaleidoscope of colorful scribbles and dots all over the paper. 

“Oh my goodness, a masterpiece!” I gasp, my eyes widening in amazement. Lukas laughs again, clambering out of my arms and over to a table in the corner, where his own little set of paints and paper lie. 

“Can I paint it now, please?”

“Absolutely. Grab your apron and have at it.” I say, nodding at him, then stepping over to my own work in progress. A bright array of flowing blues, striking yellows and stabbing reds spill across the towering canvas.

I snag a paintbrush. Pressing a hand to my stomach, again, as the pain skitters through.

Maybe this would be a final, true masterpiece. 

Or this could be the start of a whole, extraordinary series.