No Chance In hell

I spent the time in between scouring the internet for every mention of art modelling; the rhythms, the expectations, all of it to quell the swirling thoughts smashing against the side of my skull and threatening to break through.

It was all arranged for me by Michael; so kind, so sweet, so entrapping; I can't break a promise someone made in my name. He seemed to like the idea anyway. I almost drop my phone on my face as it buzzes, the blue light filling my vision and leaving ghosts as I catch it at the last moment, I can barely read the words as my eyesight slowly ebbs back and I’m staring at the plain white ceiling of my bedroom.

See you at 2pm! I’ll meet you out front <3

It is currently 10am. Is he excited? To see me? I drop my phone beside me so I can better focus on my thoughts. All of them at once. My bed feels soft, the sheets as nice as ever until they aren’t; too soft, it hurts, like soft razors on my skin. Is this how I wanted to spend my first Tuesday off in forever? 

I decided to wander around my house, I can’t go out now because I am going out later, so I pace around my living room, the laminate floorboards passing under foot almost too quick to feel. The sofa is a centre piece of my course and the room; grey, fabric, a two seater, no need for anything more.

What should I wear? Does it need to be easy to remove? I try not to entertain the idea it’s nude because I think I might actually throw up. I feel green, my blood is in my head and trying to escape through the veins in my eyes, I grab the edge of the sofa for respite, fingers digging into the fabric as the wooden frame presses against my palms; firm, certain, real.

He’d tell me if it was nude…right? Michael teases me but he seems like he’d be sad if I actually got upset.

2PM comes with its useless relentless and dismissal of my feelings.

I can confirm Michael’s university isn’t a hotel but a university and there he is leaning against the wall that separates the world from students, his hair seems longer than I remember, brushing his shoulders with wisps like fingertips reaching for his shirt, (Red and blue checked today) as he looks up at the sky (grey(like his eyes)) his lips slightly parted, hands deep in his pockets. How am I the one modelling?

“I hope you weren’t waiting long.” I speak first and his head snaps to me immediately, parted lips breaking into an immediate smile.

“I got out here 5 minutes early even though I knew you’d be dead on time.”

The glint in his smile; is it wrong to turn up on time? Why agree a time if you don’t want me there? I push it aside and let him lead me through the complex of buildings. It feels cold, clinical, academic but old, used and loved. I sign in through a physical book, my name under a waterfall of black ink.

The art department is in an older part of the uni, Michael informs me, and I can feel that in the cool air seeping out the stone bricks, the ceiling is too tall and too short for comfort, doors still with patterns of metal wire inside it, their frames worn and aged.

I enter a room with an amphitheatre of easels with their focal point a tattered chaise lounge with red velvet and dark wood in a spot light tinged faintly orange which somehow makes the velvet redder. It’s so beautifully staged with a fur rug over one side I almost didn’t notice the twenty or so students staring at me in mild silence. A few faces pop out from the exhibition and look my way with a slight wave.

I wave back; my hand moves with almost coached reflexes, I can feel every nerve spider webbing under my skin and brushed by the cool air. To my side I can hear the outline of Michael’s introduction of me, my brain and ears floating a few feet behind me like a deflated balloon, slowly catching up just in time to hear the end of his sentence.

“...get changed next door and then we’ll set up.”

Oh thank god, I initially think, get changed implies into clothes but that evaporates as I’m ushered by a suspiciously happy Michael to the adjacent room; a sort of cloakroom and storage room. There are aprons and supplies on racks. My heart beats a little faster as something else is pushed into my hands.

“I argued against full nudity for your sake.” Michael is still smiling but his voice is earnest and kind to my ears, “I’ve done it before and even for me it was a bit uncomfortable. I didn’t want to put you in a situation where you might lose your voice again.”

Kind. He’s so kind. It’s the only word fluttering around my mind like a kaleidoscope of butterflies as I pull on the clothes. They feel soft, well worn, natural single fibres, no elastic, they fit me…just. There is no mirror in the room so I look for my reflection in Michael’s eyes; wide, silver backed.

“Were you watching me the whole time?”

“No, I had my back turned like a gentleman.”

His gaze feels anything but gentlemanly and I look down to find myself dressed like something out of a painting; a frilled white blouse that errs on off-white and black trousers that feel like they’re vampiric; stealing the blood from my legs.

“It just needs a final touch.” Michael murmurs, moving in close and pushing his hand lightly through my hair, every other hair on my body stands to attention as a shiver runs up my spine and right to the base of my skull.

I take a moment to compose myself; gazing at a shelf of plastic palettes and counting how many compartments they have; 12.

Michael is watching me. He stands a few steps further away but his gaze is as close as if the air between us had collapsed. My lips feel self-conscious.

“I’ll put your stuff here on this shelf.” He says before exiting first.

My chest is bare to the cold air but I’ve never felt warmer in my life. I follow before I stay in the room forever, its safety a windowless door, shuts behind me and in the room I watch a few eyebrows raise. It is a silly outfit I know.

I sit on the edge of the chair, the old wood biting into the backs of my thighs, my body as stiff, as rigid, noticeably so. Michael places a hand on my shoulder and guides my body back, sideways, so I’m reclining, his hands feel authoritative but gentle like a teacher or a tree.

“Tell me if you’re uncomfortable.” He speaks in a voice I hope only I can hear, i want to own it, keep it close.

“I’m afraid I’ll do it wrong.”

His hair falls like a blackout curtain between us and the rest of the world, “You can’t. Just be a piece of art for me.” 

His words stick in my mind as he forms me into a pose, my body like clay under his fingertips, I can feel the marks left on my body by his touch. I close my eyes, orange darkness soothing my raw nerves.

Floating in the grasp of the chair, its back supporting mine, draped along side the fur rug under me, sensory deprivation and sensory overload all at once. One art draped behind me, fingers dangling over the abyss while the other is lain off the side of my rest, nails barely scraping the floor below. One leg bent at an angle and the other flat, my body twisted ever so slightly to rest facing where I think the artists are.

I recreate the room I’m in from memory; swirling colours and shapes that make sense until on closer inspection they dissolve into immaterial misunderstanding, even so, if i'm right, my gaze were my eyes open should be on the only easel that didn’t have a person tending it when I walked in; Michaels easel.

He has a head start; he's drawn me once more than everyone else in the room. If I’m a good piece of art will he put me up on his wall?

My position is comfortable, a moulded sleep state, the pillow placed under my head is at the perfect height to support my neck without hurting, the fur warms my legs even as the air cools my chest. Somehow in the depths of pure objectification I am able to find peace and for a brief moment the world slips out from under me; a statue with closed eyes has no iris, no nerves, just stillness.