Artistic Freedom

One month ago, there was percussion. An introduction.

She honestly couldn’t tell if the doorbell had even made a sound, so she rapped the knocker four times for good measure.

One month ago was when Lailah first stood on the Ardeleans’ doorstep, face to face with the mansion itself.

She bobbed up and down on the balls of her feet while the February air gnawed on her bones. She fidgeted with the straps of her cello case. She waited patiently to be admitted.

Finally, the doors opened, and she was greeted by a short middle aged woman with a serenely vacant smile. A Mona Lisa framed by the doorway, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt that read STAFF.

Mr. Ardelean had already explained the household employees in his email, that most suffered from traumatic injuries or rare mental disorders that impacted their social abilities. Lailah tried not to be fazed. 

“Hello. My name is Lailah Cohen, and I’m here for, um . . . “ She faltered, unsure of whether her words were understood.

The staff member turned and briskly led her through the entrance hall, opening a pair of double doors before retreating. A bespectacled woman standing in the middle of the room stepped forward and grasped Lailah’s hand. 

“Welcome, Lailah! I am Dr. Ardelean, so nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. About the lessons, I believe I’ve been in correspondence with your, um--”

“Husband, yes. Nat is very busy with rehearsal these days, so he won’t be joining us. Now, please have a seat and excuse me for one moment while I fetch Perry.”

Lailah perched on a burgundy sofa. Her gaze roamed over the mantel, landing on what looked like a mirror frame but instead held four painted portraits arranged in a window-like grid.

Intrigued, she examined the fixture more closely. One of the four depicted was unmistakably Dr. Ardelean. She smiled down, her light brown eyes the exact opposite of calculating--the expression of someone wholly confident in a conclusion already drawn. Pictured next to her was a middle aged man with a radiant smile. Unlike many actors, Nat Ardelean was attractive in a comfortable way, a way that made you think, here is a truly kind human being.

The third portrait was of a teenage boy--their son, presumably. Based on what she had heard, this was a fourteen-year-old with an impressive assortment of national level skills, including figure skating, cooking, and speed solving Rubik's Cubes. Still, there was something in the way the right side of his face tugged upward slightly, and how his left eyebrow was just barely raised that made him seem either momentarily amused or perpetually smug. Lailah sincerely hoped it was the former.

She turned her attention to the fourth portrait: a wide-eyed young woman of around twenty, staring hauntingly ahead. Squinting, she made out the letters AA scrawled in the corner.

“It’s a fascinating portrayal, isn’t it?” said Dr. Ardelean.

Lailah snapped back to her surroundings. “It definitely is,” she agreed.

“That was painted by my daughter--she attends art school in California. We’re very proud of her, aren’t we, Perry?”

“Of course,” said the boy beside her. He was taller and leaner than the portrait conveyed, but the half smirk was exactly the same.

“Why don’t you show Ms. Cohen up to the music room, and you two can get set up?” Dr. Ardelean suggested. “And Lailah, one thing, there’s a Gallery on the second floor that is strictly off limits. The door is locked at all times, so it shouldn’t be an issue--it's just very valuable and fragile material.”

“Yes ma’am,” Lailah replied. As she spared a final glance at the mantel, the girl’s stare almost seemed to intensify.

One week ago, there were bells. Alarm bells.

The sound buffeted into her, blaring like a foghorn and pounding like a full-body headache.

One week ago was when Lailah first broke an Ardelean household rule. Not just any rule, but the rule, and it wasn’t even out of curiosity, or rebellion. It was entirely by accident.

She backed against a column, scanning the dark room. Dr A. was at work, Nat was at rehearsal. Would it be the staff who caught her red-handed? The police? What would she say if they did? 

The truth, obviously. That Perry, who seemed to enjoy subtly tormenting her, had somehow locked the music room door. That she had discovered that one of the wall-length mirror-frame art installments was actually a doorway, which she had taken to be an alternate exit. That the narrow staircase behind it had led her straight through to the one place she was strictly forbidden to go. An honest mistake. She wasn’t guilty of anything.

Her affirmations evaporated at the sound of footsteps--footsteps approaching from deeper inside the Gallery. Somebody was already here.

 Lailah turned, an explanation poised on her tongue, and was met with the gaze of the most unusual eyes she had ever seen. They were the shape of American footballs, and almost as big, above dark sleepless semicircles that were practically bruise-like. A network of veins running through the lids and bloodshot lines through the whites completed the disturbing image.

After a prolonged pause, they blinked. And when they did, they became she, a wiry young woman, probably about five years younger. Lailah took in her angular face, pointed nose, and tangle of dark hair. It was the girl from the portrait downstairs.

“I’m so sorry,” said Lailah, raising her voice above the alarm. “I took the wrong stairwell, and the door was unlocked, and I didn’t know this was the--”

“You took the passage?” The response cut in, half shouted. “From the music room, through the mirror painting?”

“Yes, but I swear I had no idea that it--”

The girl shook her head. “It’s fine!”

“It--what?”

“You’re not an issue,” she said, half laughing now. “C’mere.”

Lailah dazedly followed her over to the side of the room, and watched as she pressed a button sticking out of the wall. The alarm instantly stopped and the lights flickered back on. 

“This,” said the girl, “is not for you. It’s for the staff, actually. Because of their mental, you know, conditions, they can’t be in here. It, like, triggers something. But my entire apartment is connected to here, and the main doors are locked all the time, so we don’t get too many alarm-trippers.”

“On my first day, Dr. Ardelean told me never to come here because of ‘valuable and fragile material’.”

The girl rolled her eyes. “Let me guess, she also told you I was off at college in California? And that she’s very proud of my work? Honestly, I don’t think my parents could be any less proud.” She glanced at the instrument strapped to Lailah’s back. “So you’re the cellist? Lailah, right?”

“That’s me.”

“Welcome to the Gallery, Lailah. It can be your refuge from whatever hell my brother puts you through.”

“Doesn’t he know about the back staircase?”

“Nope. None of them do. See, they key is, anything linked to my art is automatically dismissed. And I figured, what’s the point of a house like this with no secret passageways?” 

“Wow. And this is all your work? I saw the uh, portraits downstairs. You’re . . . AA?”  

The girl studied her. For a moment, Lailah was brought back to the haunting image of those eyes looming in the semidarkness. “Yes, to both of those. And you can call me Ami.”

One day ago, there was a chord. A broken one.

It sounded to her like a dying breath. Four strings, each hanging on to life by a thread, but with that one pluck, each of them snapped, and her temper snapped with them.

One day ago was when Lailah first cursed the Ardelean name. Attacking a woman’s cello was simply too far.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she growled, towering over Perry as he shrank behind the music stand. “Do you have no respect for personal property?”

“I’m telling you, it wasn’t me!” he cried. “It must have been like that when I got here!”

“You expect me to believe that? You’ve been purposefully making life difficult for me for three weeks straight! You mess with the stands, you lock doors, you vandalize my instrument, and this?” She held up the photo that had been slipped into her case, the crime scene evidence of both victim and murder weapon.

“I don’t know anything about that picture either!” He paused. “Wait, let me see that. Are those my--“

“Your figure skates? Yeah, looks like it, doesn’t it? Are you still going to claim you had nothing to do with this?”

“Yes! You have to believe me, I would never do that with my skates! It’s, like, really bad for the blades. Like, dude, just use a knife or something!”

Lailah gave him a pointed look.

“Plus, I’ve never developed a photo before in my life--I don’t even know how, and even if I did, why would I make it that obvious? It totally spoils the reaction!”

She made the look even more pointed, channeling red-hot needles into her gaze.

Perry cleared his throat. “Plus I would never destroy someone’s property like that, of course.”

“Well, it sure as hell wasn’t the staff, so who’s going to pay me the fifty dollars for new strings, and explain to your parents why I have to come back tomorrow for a makeup lesson? Oh, and an apology would be nice.”

“I didn’t--argh! I guess I have no choice.” He glared at the nearest mirror-painting. “It’s like you said, who else could it have been?”

One hour ago, there was a chime. A notification.

She was in the music room when the email appeared, sitting cross-legged on the piano bench, her laptop propped on the keys. At first the little pinprick of sound didn’t faze her, but then she saw the address.

One hour ago was when Lailah first found out about the Ardeleans’ secret. Or rather, it found her.

From: a.ardelean.art@gmail.com

To: lailahrose@cohenmusic.com

Subject: GET OUT OF THERE NOW

Meet me in the Gallery. This is urgent. Do NOT go to the lesson!

--Ami

It took her four and a half minutes to process the message, collect her belongings, shoulder her recently repaired cello, and slip out the back staircase. It took no time at all for Ami to appear at the Gallery door and greet her with genuine panic, eyes wider than she would have thought possible. At the sight of Lailah she relaxed, gesturing her inside and immediately locking the door behind them.

“Oh my God, what is going on?” Lailah said breathlessly. “Is there some sort of emergency?”

“No, it’s okay,” Ami replied. “It’s so lucky you saw my message in time. I was on the verge of going up there myself.”

“That's great and all, but what exactly is going on?”

Ami closed her eyes. “My family, that’s what.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“We’re parasites, Lailah. All of us. Leeches. Freaks who can’t help but drain other people. Mom drains their intellect--she used it in school to pass all her tests. Dad drains their personality, their charisma, their humor. And Perry, he drains their skills.” 

“He drains . . their skills? Like, metaphorically speaking?”

“No, he drains their literal, technical, physical skills. Skating, cooking, Rubik’s-Cubing. Cello playing. Hasn’t it ever seemed a little odd to you that someone with his work ethic is so good at such specific things?”

“So you're saying they’re all . . . stolen? From other people? Like, poof, gone?”

“I mean . . . it’s more like, insert metaphorical proboscis to suck the skill straight out of you, gone. But that’s the general idea.” 

“Right,” said Lailah skeptically. “Well, for one thing, he’s barely improved.”

“That’s because he's been toying with you. Playing around. He always does that at first, but sooner or later he gets bored, and before you know it, he’s the virtuoso and you can’t even hold the bow properly.“

A feeling of uneasiness was beginning to grow in Lailah’s stomach. “You’re serious about this? It’s not a joke, or like, an act?” 

“Yes. I swear on the charred, burnt grave of everything I’ve ever created. Because that’s what’s at stake for you.” 

Ami’s urgency was contagious, and Lailah shivered. “God, that’s so horrible to even imagine! If you wanted to warn me, why didn’t you do it sooner?”

“I did! The photo? The skates, the sawed-through strings? Can’t you recognize an artistic message?”

“Apparently not,” Lailah muttered.

“Come on! The blades on the skates are him, the strings on the cello are y--oh, forget it. The point is, he’s very close to finishing the job. I overheard Mom and Dad hinting that he should ‘move on to other instruments’. It could’ve happened during this very lesson, for all I know.”

“Ami, music is my life. Without it . . . I don’t know what I would do.”

“Yeah. That’s what everyone says.”

Lailah gave her a quizzical look.

Ami sighed. “And this is where I come in. My job is to clean the slate. That’s why Mom and Dad keep me here, to ease their own guilt. They think brainwashing and employing the people they drained is some sort of penance for what they did, as if that could make up for everything they stole.”

“Wait, you're saying that the staff are--”

“Are all of my family’s victims, yes. Every person who was ever at the top of Mom’s class, every person Dad ever admired, every coach, trainer, or teacher of whatever random ability my brother felt like picking up.”

“And you drained their--”

“Their memories. I hate it, but it’s the merciful thing to do. It’s usually even consensual, especially with . . . with Perry’s victims.”

Lailah was reeling, her heart racing. “Okay, so this obviously is a lot to take in. It’s just--why are you telling me? Why me and not the skating coach, or the Rubik’s Cube master, or whatever?”

“He can’t have it,” Ami half whispered.

“What?”

“Look, I’ve never met any of them before, at least not until, you know, after. You’re an artist, Lailah. Like me. And I just know that no matter how perfect his technique may become, there’s something here”--she gestured to Lailah’s chest--”that will be destroyed. And he can’t have it. He doesn’t deserve it.” 

Lailah stared at the tears pooling in Ami’s eyes, leaking down her face. “What are you saying?”

“Let me in, Lailah. Then no one else will be able to touch you. I’ll tell them it was a mistake, and you’ll still have music, you'll still have muscle memory, you’ll still have this.” She pressed a clenched fist to her own chest.

“But . . . “ Lailah was having a hard time speaking. She placed both hands over her head, as if cradling her consciousness. “But wouldn't I lose . . . ”

“I’d take good care of that for you. I promise I would. But ultimately, the choice is yours to make.”

One minute ago, there was a voice. A soulful performance for an audience of one.

It reached her loud and clear, and it said, I am not like my family. For this to work, I have to be invited in.

One minute ago was when Lailah first let an Ardelean into her mind.

First, we have to distinguish me from you, to ensure we remain separate. My name is Amintire Ardelean.

I am my family’s conscience, and their executioner. Both things that people tend to avoid confronting at all costs.

As their conscience, I work to paint them a reflection. I capture, depict, portray--our images elude mirrors and cameras, so I make my art into a mirror. I try to give it a voice. After all, I can scream as loud as I want within this estate. They even gave me my own echo chamber.

As their executioner, I serve them. I take on the burden of their victims. I contain dozens upon dozens of angers, betrayals, griefs. I know the pain. I wish I could pass it on, wholly and truly confront them with it.

The only person I manage to confront is myself. I have only ever seen myself through the eyes and minds of those I wipe clean. Every one of those memory chains ends with them staring directly into my face.

Why do I stay here? I could run far away. A woman of nineteen is free to do what she wants. But the crimes would still happen, especially those of my brother, Pricepere Ardelean. We are not easily satisfied creatures to begin with, and he is a teenage boy. 

Yes, the crimes would still happen, but the suffering would be so much more. And without me, who knows what lengths my parents would go to to cover their tracks?

If there’s one thing the condemned deserve, it’s to be known. My mission is to make use of what I have inherited. I will tell their stories. I will tell your story. You have my undying word.

One second ago, there was silence.

Blankness.

One second ago was when Lailah’s memories first stopped being hers, and started belonging to an Ardelean.

Now, the girl with the enormous eyes releases a shuddering breath. She reaches out and takes the hand of the young woman stirring in front of her. She smiles.

“Don’t worry. Now, you're safe. Now, you're free.”