Olivia

This story is by Lori Paradis and was part of our 2024 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

Despite two years of engagement, Olivia had never imagined marrying Théo. Not really, anyway. He embodied everything she had wanted in a boyfriend as an attractive, wealthy, and perpetually misunderstood struggling artist. They shared a love for theatrics that never needed a stage. Even though the relationship was utterly incongruous with her idea of marriage, they had a great time together, and she wasn’t ready to give it up. Theo, however, was in dire need of a wake-up call.

As Olivia strode toward their apartment to pack her things, she stopped to peer into the jewelry shop window down the block. She stood on tiptoes and turned her head until her reflected self wore the sapphire earrings. They made her eyes dance, and her face took on a striking, angular beauty. She mentally added the earrings to the list of demands for her reconciliation with Théo.

Half worried he had changed the locks, Olivia sighed with relief when her key slipped into the slot. As she entered the studio apartment, two things made her pause: One, the room was heavy with the smell of paints, linseed oil, and mineral spirits, which was odd because, to her knowledge, it had been weeks since Théo picked up his brush. Two—the thing that surprised her the most—a loud snore emanated from the bed.

Théo was supposed to be at his mother’s weekly Sunday lunch. Olivia had postponed collecting her belongings until today—not to avoid a dramatic scene; quite the contrary. Before they reconciled, she wanted him wretched, filled with despair, and convinced he would never lay eyes on her again.

The large, uncovered windows allowed plenty of light. Against the far wall, Théo lay splayed on the bed half-naked, one arm resting over his face, mouth wide open. To Olivia’s great relief, he was alone.

She froze at the door, listening to his steady, deep breathing before she relaxed. The empty wine bottles on the kitchen counter hinted he was taking more than an afternoon nap. Hoping not to disturb his drunken slumber, she snuck into the room.

Balancing on her tiptoes, she tugged her suitcase off the top shelf of the closet, almost falling when it came away. She slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a nervous laugh. Clearing a space on the floor, she opened the bag.

Even when they broke up, which was often, she found joy in the cycle of fighting and reconciling. Olivia had never moved out before. But Théo had gone too far in having an affair and needed to understand the gravity of his actions. They were now very much in want of an intermission.

Oliva was sleeping on a friend’s couch, and in her absence, Théo treated their apartment like a dumping ground, with discarded clothing and dirty dishes strewn in piles across the floor. Olivia kept things tidy but was horrified by the condition of their apartment—his apartment, she corrected herself. It had never been hers.

Théo used the apartment as his art studio and would not allow her to decorate it like a home. No, after two years of her living there, the studio still resembled a bachelor pad. Her only contribution was the excess clothing overflowing the closet. She stuffed a few pairs of shoes at the bottom of the suitcase and buried them with an armful of clothing.

Olivia stood, brushed her knees, glanced at the bathroom where her toiletries were, and sighed. Théo had spread multiple palettes slicked with paints all over the floor, scattered like an actress’s costumes during a tumultuous wardrobe change. She removed her shoes and picked her way across the chaos but stopped midway when she noticed his easel beside the bed. Théo’s easel usually operated as a coat hanger but had been cleared and now supported a large canvas.

It wasn’t wise to move so close, but curiosity got the better of her. She eyed Théo’s sleeping figure as she walked closer, but the clang of a fork on a dish made her hold her breath. Théo stirred in his sleep but only turned toward the wall and belched.

Disgusted, Olivia shifted her attention to the painting, and her mouth fell open. Théo’s eyes stared back at her from the canvas. His depiction lounged on the bed, wearing a smug, godlike appearance, the sheets twisted over his nether regions, his passive form more toned than in reality. He had painted her wrapped in his arms.

It was strange seeing herself through his eyes. Her visage was perfectly executed yet distorted. He had drawn her gazing up at him with complete love-sick adoration—an expression she had absolutely never worn in real life—another lie.

In a small way, she admired his technique. It was his most accomplished work, with its colors, composition, textures, and brushstrokes working together to perfection. But this positive critique came from a very small part of her. Most of her attention was consumed by suppressing the real and unmistakable anger burning in her chest.

Olivia released a forceful breath and continued packing, her jaw rigid. Her displeasure made her clumsy; her hair spray clacked hard against her volumizer. She looked up to see the effect on Théo, but he snored on, oblivious to her presence.

Her departure hinged on one more item: the small journal she used to keep. She pulled out drawer after drawer, shuffling the contents of old drawings, takeout menus, scissors, and coins before she found what she was looking for. As she moved to stuff the journal in her back pocket, an old family photo slipped from the pages: her married parents, Olivia, and her siblings. At one point, she had longed for a companion to share life with and had even imagined herself as a mother. Yet she had remained here with Théo, wasting time, smothering the potential to pursue what she truly wanted from life. Too paralyzed with fear of the unknown to move forward.

She tucked the photo back within the journal and shut it with a thump in her hand before stuffing it in her pocket, wiping a tear from her eye. As she turned away, she slipped on a dirty shirt, lost her balance, and stepped on a paint palette. She growled in frustration. Anger welled up in her like vomit, and it took all her concentration to keep it down. She paced the room, paint marks trailing her on the floor. Holding her hair back with one hand, she took a jagged breath. Her chest shuddered with every inhalation. She should walk out. Get some air. Return another time.

But it was simply too late.

A large hardcover book lay on Théo’s bedside, prompting a snap decision. Olivia marched over, grabbed the book, and slammed it on the floor. She watched Théo with gleeful anticipation. He only rolled over, snoring even louder, and Olivia noticed the earbuds in his ears.

Her lip trembled. She needed to fight, to yell, to hit, to scream, to rip him apart, to reap relief from the fiery ball of fear that welled in her chest.

She marched to the dresser and grabbed a pair of cold metal scissors. The multiple slanted surfaces reflected her smile, distorting it into a twisted expression. Stooping, she took liberties with a forsaken paint palette, her theatrical side taking over.

Red paint dripped from the scissor tips as she stood. Her vision blurred as she approached Théo. She grasped the scissors in both hands and drew them over her head. At the last moment, she turned. In one swift motion, she plunged the blades deep into Théo’s painted forehead.

Wide-eyed, she surveyed her work. Her chest relaxed, and her breath became steady, more rhythmic. She had thoroughly pierced the canvas. The red paint she had coated the tip of the scissors with now dripped down his face in gory splatters. Her arms fell to her sides.

Théo had broken her trust and crossed a line she didn’t know how to mend. But his behavior merely sparked the violent unraveling of her peace. No more was she paralyzed from taking the first step toward starting over.

For too long, she had been stuck in someone else’s script, playing a role she never wanted. But tonight, she wrote her own lines, ready for a soliloquy where she chose the setting and the plot. Olivia stepped closer to the window with trembling fingers and studied the soft reflection of herself—not the adoring woman Théo painted, but someone else.

I haven’t been that person for a long time now, she thought as her chest tightened. She sobbed while packing, knowing it would be their closing night. Without looking back, she left for good, ready to step into whatever scene came next.

As she exited the apartment, Olivia paused, closed her eyes, and listened to her heartbeat. It was steady. It was strong. For the first time in years, she could breathe again.