Chapter 6: The Other Subject

Chapter 6: The Other Subject

The photograph of the sun-drenched cabin lay on her carpet, a cruel monument to a happiness she now knew was built on a lie. The memory of Julian’s voice on the phone—cool, clinical, discussing “the next subject”—had soured everything. The weekend that had felt like the pinnacle of her existence was merely a project nearing completion. A coldness had settled deep in Clara’s bones, a disillusionment that felt more chilling than any of the beige silences she had once cultivated. There were only a few Polaroids left in the box. The story was almost over. Her desire to see it through was no longer about reliving the pleasure, but about performing an autopsy.

With a grim sense of finality, she reached into the box. Her fingers closed around a single, glossy square. She pulled it out.

And froze.

This photo was not part of her memory. She had no recollection of it being taken, no sensory echo connected to its image. The others had been like keys, instantly unlocking vivid, total-recall experiences. This one was a locked door. A void.

The picture was dark, taken in low light, likely illuminated only by the dying embers of the fireplace in his study. It was of her, asleep on the crimson velvet armchair, her head tilted to one side, mouth slightly parted. She was wearing the black lace chemise, a detail that placed the photo sometime after their weekend at the cabin. She looked utterly vulnerable, lost to the world. A sleeping masterpiece. But she wasn't alone.

Standing just behind the armchair, partially cloaked in shadow but undeniably present, was another woman. A girl, really. Younger than Clara had been, with wide, curious eyes and long dark hair. Clara recognized her instantly. It was Sarah Jenkins, a quiet, talented first-year from Julian’s introductory survey course. In the photograph, Sarah wasn’t looking at the camera. She was looking down at the sleeping Clara, her expression a disturbing mixture of awe, academic curiosity, and something else… something that looked like envy. Julian had taken this photo. He had been the observer, composing a scene that included not one, but two of his students.

A wave of nausea roiled in Clara’s stomach. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force the memory to surface, trying to access the visceral flood that had accompanied every other picture. Come on. Remember.

Nothing. Or, not nothing. Something worse.

The memory didn’t come as a coherent narrative. It came in jagged, terrifying shards, like flashes from a broken mirror.

…the taste of wine, heavier, sweeter than usual… a thick, syrupy feeling behind her eyes… Julian’s voice, a low murmur, not directed at her… “Observe the line of the throat… the absolute trust in repose…”… the scent of sandalwood, yes, but mixed with something else… cheap, floral perfume, the kind girls wore in the dorms… a scratchy wool blanket being draped over her legs, not the soft cashmere he always used… a floorboard creaking under a light tread that wasn't his… a flicker of movement seen through heavy, half-closed eyelids… a whispered question, a girl’s voice, “Is she…?”… Julian’s answering murmur, too low to hear…

Clara’s eyes snapped open, a strangled gasp escaping her lips. She scrambled away from the photo as if it were crawling with spiders, her back hitting the leg of her sensible sofa. Her heart was a frantic, terrified bird beating against the cage of her ribs. The feeling wasn't arousal or even shame. It was pure, ice-cold horror.

The fragmented images were a nightmare. They felt real, but disconnected, as if she had been a spectator in her own body. The heaviness in her limbs, the fog in her mind… had she just been tired? Drunk? Or had he… had he given her something?

The trust she had so willingly, so eagerly placed in him—the trust he had called the “ultimate artistic medium”—had been predicated on a simple, unspoken contract: that it was their world. His and hers. A secret composition for two. The silk tie around her wrists had been a symbol of her trust in him. The public display at the gallery had been a thrill because it was their secret held against the world.

Now, that entire foundation crumbled into dust.

His words from the lakeside phone call echoed in her mind, taking on a new, monstrous meaning. “The current composition is nearly complete… the next subject has potential… we’ll see if she can be molded as effectively.”

The sickening realization dawned on her, a black sun rising in a sky of dread. He hadn’t just been planning to replace her. Had he used her as a demonstration? Had he brought Sarah, the “next subject,” into their sacred space to observe the final product? Was she not the masterpiece, but merely the final exam for her own replacement? Had he put her on display—helpless, unconscious—as an example of his work? A living sculpture for a private viewing?

The man who had spoken of art and beauty and vulnerability, who had coaxed her out of her shell and made her feel like the most cherished creation in the world, was a liar. The entire affair, every lesson, every touch, was instantly re-contextualized. It wasn’t a dark romance; it was a clinical experiment. He wasn’t Pygmalion, sculpting his perfect Galatea out of love. He was a vivisectionist, pinning his specimen to a board to lecture over its still-breathing body.

The trust wasn’t just fractured anymore. It was annihilated. Obliterated. In its place, a cold, hard dread settled, followed by a surge of white-hot rage. He hadn't just manipulated her; he had violated her. He had broken the one rule she hadn't even known needed to be a rule. He had brought someone else in.

The past was no longer a story to be remembered. It was a crime scene to be investigated. Her quest was no longer about understanding her own willing corruption. It was about exposing his calculated cruelty.

Clara’s trembling stopped, replaced by a rigid, chilling resolve. Her gaze fell on the Polaroid, on the face of the other girl. Sarah Jenkins. She had a name. She was a lead.

The burning need for answers consumed everything else. She had to know what really happened that night. She had to find Sarah. She had to uncover the truth, not as Julian had composed it, but as it had actually happened. The rest of the photos in the box could wait. The past had just crashed into her present, and she was going to crash right back.