The Demon Machine

By L. Chambers Wright

Blue Ridge Nuclear Energy is the largest and safest nuclear energy facility on earth, until the impossible occurs. A mushroom cloud arises from a reactor. Freak electrical events plague nearly every home. There are no answers, no evidence, and as soon as it seems the worst is over, new horrors begin. First responders abandon their posts. Teachers desert their classrooms. The citizens of Thompson are stricken with a strange affliction. Enraged hordes of the ailing gather in the streets, and those who should be dead are not. Four strangers from vastly differing lives must survive this new world of madness and destruction. Each must conquer their demons within, to fight the evil that surrounds them. Their struggles come down to a battle of shadow and light, but hope ebbs as they discover just how powerful the enemy is. The explosion wasn't a display of power, it was merely a distraction for an even greater adversary.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black House Books
• Release date: Aug 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9798201498474

L. Chambers Wright

L. Chambers-Wright also writes as Laura Wright. She grew up surrounded by Appalachian folklore and ghost stories, many of which find their way into her material. She currently lives with her family in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. She has had many books published, and continues to prolifically write fiction, as well as non-fiction history. She is the primarily caregiver for a number of relatives, several pets, and an unknown number of wild animals. Her interests include photography, music, and casual gaming. Her personal website is Laurawrites.net [http://laurawrites.net]. She runs the Virginia Creeper Appalachian History and Folklore website [http://vacreeper.com], as well as Appalachia Obscura, an obscure history and folklore website [http://appalachiangothic.com].

Book preview

Chapter 1

I will utterly consume all things from off the land....

—Zephaniah 1:2

He did not belong in the stifling reception area, where each generic fern imitated the one beside it. The utilitarian desk at the front of the room was made of the same material as the chairs, and all were precisely positioned. He was not utilitarian, nor was he precisely positioned. The strange and foreboding day only left him with the feeling of a proverbial noose tightening around his neck.

His faded blue maintenance uniform was conspicuous in the austere environment of white-collar sensibility. The lifeless air smelled of copy machines and stale coffee. The manufactured tranquility didn’t ease his knotted stomach. He wished they’d waited just a day for the meeting. He had such a bad feeling. The typical Monday morning hangover felt foreign after a year of sobriety. He remembered why he gave up drinking in the first place.

The Human Resources Assistant Manager, who waited on him by the badge scanner, was also alien to his routine. The perky younger woman bounded to him, Mr. Vernon? Mr. Rhoton would like to see you. He followed the overpowering trail of trendy perfume, although an escort really wasn’t necessary. He’d been all over the plant in the twenty years of his employ. It was a little late for a chaperone. The Assistant Manager curtly dropped him in the administrative reception area and bounded off elsewhere.

He’d been summoned to pay homage to the almighty Human Resources Manager, and suspected he should’ve brought tribute. Unfortunately, he’d left the laurel wreath at home. He shouldn’t joke. He already knew it was a bad after the hopeless weekend he endured. Nothing remotely good ever followed something like that, not that anything good ever followed him. Hannah left him damn near penniless on Friday, after nearly two damned decades together. The weekend’s remainder involved the loss of a large fraction of those remaining finances in search of bottled comfort.

He’d been dry a year, but that didn’t matter now. He changed his life for her as soon as she asked, but none of that mattered. He wasn’t sure why the loss hit him so hard. She seldom cooked. She seldom cleaned. She didn’t work. She was much more concerned with what she could consume, than anything she might contribute. She spent most of the time on that damned phone, doing who-knew-what. He didn’t know why it bothered him at all. It had, though. It felt like she’d ripped his soul out of his body. Maybe that made him even more of a loser.

He felt like he needed to be as quiet as possible, although he didn’t know why. Something was wrong with everything he’d encountered, all morning. Things were just off. Food didn’t taste right, hell, not even coffee did what it was supposed to do. His truck didn’t sound or drive like normal. His clothes didn’t feel as they should. He felt conspicuous and paranoid as he drove to work, like everyone, everywhere, had their eyes on him.

Maybe it was just the remnants of that hellacious weekend and would pass. Maybe his imagination just took advantage of his emotional state. The best way to blend in was just to follow orders and keep his mouth shut. Maybe he would slip under the radar of whatever this was.

The only other person in the room was a seemingly terrified receptionist who typed in erratic spurts. She probably had no idea of what actual terror was, not after his morning. She cast an awkward glance in his direction every so often. Yes, I am the big bad Ferris Vernon, who comes to huff and puff and blow the walls down. He nearly grinned. He’d enjoyed a few of the rumors that circulated about him. It didn’t really matter how or why they started, they were funny as hell. Sometimes. And then sometimes they just got old. Today was one of those days.

The white telephone on her desk barely finished its first ring and she pounced, visibly relieved for a break in her awkward, self-imposed silence. The honorable Human Resources Manager now had a moment to address a lowly employee. The receptionist actually smiled as he walked into the office. Snobby bitch, he scowled. She’s probably just like Hannah, anyway, same shit, different face. His sense of impending doom was magnified by the summons. This was it, whatever it was.

Rhoton’s office carried the same nondescript décor as the waiting room. The striking difference was the countless stacks of papers and files scattered across his desk and piled on the floor. Rhoton’s disorganized office inspired countless jokes throughout the plant. You know what’s going on? No? Neither does Rhoton. How many pigs does it take to make a sty? One: Nick Rhoton.

The polite conversation took a sinister turn within minutes. Mr. Vernon, I hope you realize how much we have appreciated your time here.

I’d appreciate it if you’d clean this pigsty up. He gripped his hands to suppress a chuckle as sarcastic retorts drifted through his mind. The glimmer of humor faded as the dubious atmosphere diminished even that. Rhoton only looked at him every now and again, his neatly trimmed hair and dark-rimmed accountant glasses accentuated his rat-like appearance. His thick mustache nearly enveloped his narrow mouth.

He noticed Rhoton waited on a response, You’re welcome? He suddenly felt as if he was being pulled under. The knot in his gut swelled to the size of a watermelon. His pulse raced. Something was happening. He hated it. He didn’t want any part of it. He didn’t want to be there. He wanted to bolt from the room and the plant, but couldn’t. It wasn’t just thoughts of his job being in jeopardy, there was something else amiss. Something he didn’t know about. What’s happening to me?

I’m afraid your time here is over. Rhoton leaned back in his chair, clearly accustomed to the speech. He finally looked Ferris in the eyes. Rhoton’s blank expression was as impossible to decipher as his tone.

He held his breath for a moment, but Rhoton didn’t elaborate. In retrospect, it wasn’t a surprise. Several area companies encouraged older employees to retire early, especially when the company hired an influx of young employees. Sometimes the retirement wasn’t so voluntary. Blue Ridge had undergone drastic changes in the previous years. He would miss his routine, but it made sense for the company. Management probably wanted new employees with decades ahead of them.

It’s time to retire already? After the shock faded, it really was music to his ears. Thoughts of rest and relaxation soothed his worsening headache. Routine or not, he didn’t want to work any longer than he had to. He couldn’t manage the pressures as easily as he once did. His mind still felt powerful, but his body didn’t react as it once did.

The rumors were another part of work life he’d come to dislike. They were novel, at first. He still tried to see their novelty, but they were tiresome. Denial just made them linger longer and travel faster. It would be nice to live without that shadow over him.

I’m afraid not. Rhoton’s words jerked him out of peaceful jubilation. Everything went silent, from the whisper of the computer fan, to the office outside. Deathly still. The world flashed dark and treacherous. Dreams of a leisurely retirement dissolved into oblivion. His mood darkened, Excuse me?

You were a good employee, Mr. Vernon. Nick Rhoton shook his head and opened a folder in front of him. I’m just afraid the past caught up with you at the worst time.

Past? What past? Rumors. The only logical conclusion was that rumors had infiltrated management. It was absurd, but obviously, they had been taken seriously. It didn’t seem possible that something so ridiculous would become fodder for dismissal.

You’ve been with us for twenty years. Unfortunately, you’ve been reprimanded for substance issues ten times during your two decades. Now, I’m fully aware that it’s been a year since the last, and I commend you for that, but this is a nuclear energy facility. We can’t endanger the plant, or the public, with such disregard. This should’ve been addressed long ago. It wasn’t fair to you or to the company. We just can’t ignore things like that.

"You’re addressing this now? Are you kidding?"

I wish, Mr. Vernon. Rhoton never lost his distance or formality. The worst part of my job is firing.

Fired?

The word became a molten iron poker that firmly lodged itself in the center of his brain. Fired? How dare they? How damned dare they? A wave of ire rose from his stomach. He swallowed hard to choke back the rage that threatened to erupt. How is this possible? He thought aloud. He hadn’t wanted Rhoton to hear, because his emotions teetered dangerously close to the brink of something he couldn’t control. One wrong word, one sudden move, and he didn’t know if he would walk out, or if the cops would drag his ass out in cuffs. Or a body bag.

I’m so sorry, Mr. Vernon. Rhoton’s apologetic tone infuriated him even more. He bit his tongue to avoid yelling a number of choice obscenities about Rhoton. And his mother.

Rhoton proceeded with the customary bullshit, oblivious to the impending meltdown in front of him. Let’s be honest, truth be told, you shouldn’t have even started here to begin with. Your ‘formal training,’ was nothing more than a basic electrician certification. You didn’t study nuclear physics, environmental sciences, or any level of engineering. I don’t know who hired you without further specialization than that. Our improved personnel procedures require the finest and most skilled employees. Everyone here, including our janitorial staff, holds at least a bachelor’s degree... except you. We can’t have that at Blue Ridge. This facility is far too important, to the region, and the nation.

His mind traveled back to a fonder time when his father was the senior janitor at Blue Ridge, long before Rhoton and his pretentious bullshit. Cecil was a brilliant, unappreciated man who could manipulate anyone to do anything, and did as often as possible. He sure as hell wasn’t fired. Walter Dobbs, the old CEO, didn’t want anyone to know about his secretary, or any of his other extramarital activities. Cecil had amassed enough dirt on the old man to ensure a good life for him and his son. He made damn sure his son held the job of a lifetime.

Dobbs wouldn’t have let them fire him, but he died two years earlier. Cecil died three years before that. He was now alone in a strange and hateful world, where there was no leverage. He hadn’t gathered enough dirt on anyone to retain his position. He didn’t think he had reason to, certainly not twenty years into his career.

Rhoton twirled his white ballpoint pen a moment before he broke the silence. Since you have such an established history with the company, I’ve arranged an excellent severance package. You’ll keep all you contributed to your 401K, plus a full six months’ salary, as well as insurance benefits through then.

What about my retirement?

You will not retire from Blue Ridge. Rhoton leaned forward. If I were you, I’d be happy with what I have. You may go now. No one has to know why Blue Ridge is letting you go. You can say you were laid off, your position was terminated, or whatever you like. I’ll support whatever you say.

He drummed that damned pen as he leaned back. Right now, I’ll give you a great reference and a formal letter of recommendation. We can keep any... issues between us. I’ll also allow you the dignity of leaving without an escort. Any difficulties, however, and I won’t. If we have a problem, you will be escorted by four guards.

Ferris clenched his fists as he slowly rose. They will pay. They will all pay. He gritted his teeth so hard he waited for them to crack. Sneaky motherfucker. He couldn’t grab the little man and sling him into the wall. He couldn’t stab him with that damned pen. He needed every ounce of available willpower to maintain composure. Bludgeoning company superiors did not improve future employment prospects. Self-denial was never one of his strong points, and the arduous task was now his only hope.

He cautiously exited the room to avoid an abrupt reaction. The least amount of excitement might unleash the force he felt building and he didn’t want to unleash. He didn’t want to prove the rumors true. He was not a drunk. He’d been sober a year... well, before this past weekend, but that had nothing to do with work. He was not violent regardless of the rumors. He hadn’t been in a fight in years and those were never at work.

The receptionist nearly cowered behind her computer as he passed again. He started to make a pass just to irritate her, but decided against it. It wasn’t worth it. God only knew what charges she would fabricate if he aggravated her. He could hear the claims now: sexual harassment, attempted rape, assault and battery, yada, yada, yada.

Unemployment seemed impossible, just as ridiculous as Rhoton’s fantasy where those fired could just pick up where they were at another companies. So many years had passed while he was at Blue Ridge and he’d never noticed such a shift in policies. It was obvious that much had escaped his attention.

He started down the hall leading away from human resources, but paused halfway down. In retrospect, it was pretty damned obvious that Hannah had someone else, and he didn’t know that, either. He was thrown out of his thoughts when he rounded the corner.

Something was wrong.

The building was abandoned.

Main Hall was never empty. Uniformed controllers continually trekked between the offices and the control rooms. The systems were always closely monitored due to their temperamental nature. Whatever the reason, the hall was now devoid of life. He looked back around at the office area, but even that appeared desolate. The cowering secretary had just vanished.

It was fine with him, regardless. Let the bastards burn. He wasn’t working there anymore. Wasn’t his problem any longer. Not my monkeys, not my circus. He had a vivid mental image of those smart-ass, new-hire punks giggling behind him. Bastards.

He’d noticed the latest group earlier, goofy grins and peach-fuzzed faces. No doubt, each one was fresh out of college, paid for by Mommy and Daddy, with heads full of bullshit.

The cream-of-the-corn-fed-middle-class-crop, and each one could probably drink him under the table, but only grow-ups had substance problems. Kids only had substance issues if they weren’t in the appropriate financial bracket; otherwise, they experimented. He ambled down the hall and around next corner. He met yet another empty corridor.

He had no idea of where to go or what to do. He was adrift in a strange and hateful sea. He’d never before crossed into such uncharted waters, or witnessed such a dismal sky. The years were against him. Fifty was a long, long way from twenty and, as if that wasn’t enough, he didn’t have a degree. Apparently, pieces of paper mattered more to the world than actual performance or skill, a theory supported by the countless companies going ass-up every day.

Who cared if you had no concept of what powered the company, or how to maintain optimum efficiency? You knew nothing without a degree. Of course, it didn’t matter what kind of degree you had, just as long as it was a degree. Like Rhoton said, even the janitors held degrees. Didn’t matter what they were for, of course. That piece of paper was a neat magic trick, an illusion of competence and merit that opened doors. The corporate world wanted the finest degrees so they could say the finest minds sent their company into bankruptcy. Maybe it shouldn’t surprise him. The finest degree-holding bastards ran the government. Enough said, right there. 

He sighed as he continued down another empty hall. His finances weren’t what they should be. He knew he shouldn’t have gone on a bender. Hannah had cleaned out the checking account before he even got to the bank on Friday. The majority of his savings replaced what she stole. Oh, sure, he could sue her, but that would be a waste of time. She hadn’t worked in decades. Thoughts of the hundreds of dollars he drank up over the weekend made him nauseous. He should’ve known.

Pain emerged around his left hip, a razor blade of agony skated up his spinal column. The left side of his body prickled and ached. He winced as the pain traveled into his head. The worst pain he’d ever known mercifully subsided after a few seconds. He drew a deep breath and waited. He needed to be careful. It would be his luck to suffer a stroke just after he lost his job.

He navigated the labyrinth of deserted hallways towards the front of the building, but couldn’t shake a keen pang of terror. Something was wrong. It didn’t take that long to reach the facility’s entrance, and he knew there weren’t that many hallways. There was no way they’d place the hardships of extended foot travel on management. Problem was, everything appeared so damned normal. It looked exactly like the halls that led to the exit. If the exit existed any longer. There was nothing, but more of the same hall around every corner.

He’d never paid attention to the corridors before. Previously ignored details stood out as he continued his final journey through the plant. Every corridor visually ran together with the previous one. The cinderblock walls were coated with thick white and gray latex paints. The floors echoed the continuity, with seamless stretches of stained concrete. It was almost hypnotic. It would be so easy to become completely lost, to take a wrong turn and wonder the plant forever, especially now that everyone was gone. The absence of life was unsettling, but it wasn’t his problem any longer.

But, you won’t get lost will you, Ferris?

He nearly jumped when the strange voice came from everywhere, and yet nowhere. It spoke in his head. He turned a full circle, but there was no one near. It was as empty and vacant as it had been. There weren’t even sounds of footfall or hushed voices in the distance.

What the hell? He whispered.

You might say that. The voice said. But, that’s not very nice.

Who the fuck is there? He hissed.

Now, Ferris, the voice admonished. There’s no need for vulgarities... I’m your friend.

He didn’t respond and wouldn’t respond. There was now no thought of procrastination. He would go straight to the hospital when he exited the plant. He may or may not be having a stroke, but he definitely approached some realm of insanity. I’m crazy. He whispered to himself as he picked up the pace. I’m just crazy.

You’re fine, but if you go to a hospital, you know they’ll say you’re crazy. The disembodied voice warned. They don’t get paid for telling people they’re sane... or healthy. Every doctor always says there’s something wrong. You know that.

Stop talking. He demanded under his breath. Someone might hear.

No one can hear, Ferris... Unless you are heard.

He needed to ignore everything. He prayed you were only crazy if you voluntarily communicated with the voices in your head. He quietly growled in frustration when the next segment of the hall looked just like the one before. After twenty years, he was confident the plant just wasn’t that big. It wasn’t possible for there to be that much distance between the offices and the front door. He must’ve just taken a wrong turn... but where? How did that escape his notice?

You can ignore me, Ferris, but you can’t silence me. What I have to say is too important. You are too important.

Don’t listen. Don’t pay attention.

The voice ignored his dismissal. It tempted him with strange and fantastic promises. He would be great and respected, among a million other wonders, yet could he honestly expect anything? It was the voice of insanity and he was the only audience, reluctant or not. He knew there was no hope, promises, or aspirations. He would be forgotten. At best, he could hope to be a fading whisper. He rounded another corner to find the familiar vacant stretch.

The voice gained substance and strength. It seemed to come alive and stand before him, You can do it, Ferris. I know you can.

Honest-to-God, you insane piece-of-shit, do what? His response was louder than he liked, but his patience had worn paper thin. "What do I do?" He no longer cared if someone heard. It would be nice to see another person after such a feeling of isolation. The strange emptiness started to get to him. It was unnatural. If anyone heard, he could always say they’d be out of a job and talking to themselves in twenty years, too.

Destroy the reactor. Obliterate the company.

He laughed. He tried to calm his outburst, but another wave of hilarity crept up on him. He leaned against the wall to support himself. If only. The ludicrous idea was utterly infantile, and it had been years since he felt young.

Blue Ridge Nuclear Energy was the largest nuclear energy generating facility in the world. Six massive reactors generated enough power for most of the southeastern United States. It was the safest and most advanced facility of its kind. An entire network of brilliant foreign terrorists couldn’t even breach the exterior, and he was supposed to wreak some kind of havoc alone? Yea, right, he thought. Destroy the reactor? Me and what team of specialists?

None are necessary, Ferris. I’ll tell you everything. You just follow my instructions. It was now beside him, as if someone stood there. First, he faced the horrors of unemployment and now, the worsening horrors of insanity. There didn’t seem to be a lesser of the two evils. Both promised respective tortures. Both promised failure and utter despair.

The voice finally silenced, but he didn’t know for how long. He was acutely aware that, even if he made it out of the building, he wouldn’t find work. There was no need to pretend otherwise. Companies of any merit would not take a new employee at his age. Even if there was a chance that something might work out, he would need another twenty years just to reach his current level. If the company even lasted. Of course, there was also the chance he would just be dealt the same hand of cards a few years down the road.

It was over, and there was no resurrection for Ferris Vernon. The phoenix would not rise from the ashes. He might draw unemployment, but that wouldn’t last. He might squeeze by until another other job came. Or not.

Hannah’s female intuition was accurate. She picked a good weekend to leave. She would’ve left anyway. She liked working men. Job loss also meant his romantic prospects were just as dismal. What woman in her right mind would be interested an unemployed man? Now he was nothing. He had nothing. He would be nothing. Any hope for his career or personal life was obliterated in seconds.

I’m sorry, Mr. Vernon... echoed through his brain. They had no right to destroy people, and that’s what they did. It wouldn’t have hurt the company in any way if he retired early. He was just a few years away.

No, I’m sorry, Mr. Rhoton. He grumbled. I’m so sorry.

Now you see, Ferris. The Voice finally returned. Now you see as I do. What do we need to do?

It was no longer a mere amusement. He was more serious than he had been, in as long as he could recall. He didn’t care who heard him.

Destroy the reactor.

Chapter 2

And the king said unto them, I have dreamed a dream, and my spirit was troubled... —Daniel 2:3

She woke with a smile and a sweet memory of the previous night. A yellow sticky note on the nightstand echoed amorous satisfaction: Thought you could use some sleep. I took the kids to school. Love you.

Justine Yates stretched and relished the alien silence of a quiet morning. Waking in a tranquil environment was a rare luxury. She stood and stretched her arms upward. Her back ached, but there wasn’t a better reason for a little pain.

She showered and dressed without a million questions of where things were. The state of kitchen reminded her that she missed the pancake breakfast. Plates coated in sticky maple syrup were stacked in the sink. Scattered amber droplets made haphazard patterns on the counter. A few stray drops had fallen on the floor under the island. A used skillet atop the range was on a back burner.

She flipped on the counter television as she rounded the island. Sleep was an occasional indulgence that required a little more work, but was worth it. She piled dishes in the dishwasher and scrubbed all traces of the syrup away. A beautiful day shone upon the valley outside. Neighbors greeted one another on the streets. Several talked as they pulled gardening equipment from their garages and sheds. Evidently, it was a good morning for many.

White puffs of smoke lazily drifted upward in the distance. Fluffy white billows ascended from the towers at Blue Ridge Energy.

Blue Ridge Energy.

It recently became a shadow in her mind, a lingering suspicion over her heart. It was ridiculous, especially when they’d lived in the community for so long without even a minor incident. The sudden worry was just senseless.

Abrupt or not, it had been a concern for several days. She hoped it was just a groundless concern, an ugly fabrication that crawled out of the recesses of her mind. In those visions, fire poured forth from Blue Ridge. Flames consumed the valley almost instantly. The world became molten, and turned to blackened ash.

All of the positive affirmations and self-reassurances didn’t alleviate the lingering disquiet. It seemed to gain even more power with denial. Yes, premonitions run in the family, but what are the odds that one vision would be correct, especially one so irrational? She’d feared so many things in the past that never happened.

Brian’s wreck happened four years earlier and wasn’t fatal, although those instincts said it would be. She feared Alison was kidnapped that time, but she had just wandered into a different part of the school. Both were perfectly healthy after each incident.

It would be easier to dismiss those fears if they were always incorrect. Sometimes they happened, and happened as promised. She knew she would marry Brian before she met him. She had watched her wedding happen years earlier. She knew she would have two children, a boy, and then a girl. She knew what they would look like and what they would be named. She knew her parents were dead before anyone else. She even knew that Grandmother died, monster that she was, before neighbors found her body. In reality, there were more successes than failures for her ability.

A blue jay flew past the window and broke her immersion in thought. No. The fears of major events never happened in recent years. She hoped the ability had diminished with age and those urgings would altogether disappear. She returned to her work, determined to move on to an activity that would bring release.

She pulled the easel and paints from the pantry after the morning’s work was completed. The best light always came through the bay window in the dining room. She already had a stack of completed canvases, but there was no outlet for her work in Thompson. The lauded local artists tended to be creatively challenged, mainly due to lack of experience. The majority were celebrated in their twenties and slighted by their thirties.

The city’s older painters and sculptors had to ship their work to other parts of the country for display or sale. There was much to be said about the lack of experience. Honing any craft required years of dedication and discipline. P. Dilling, Thompson’s artist en vogue, had painted all of three years and his work showed it.

Dilling’s most noted accomplishments were little more than veiled plagiarism. He mixed Pollock with Warhol and drew great applause. One of his paintings combined Van Gogh and Renoir. Other artists, who questioned his mimicry, were quickly labeled jealous or frustrated. There was nothing worse than the artistic hypocrisy and creative prejudice of small town art experts. They would never find another Arthur Kendall. The world lost a great artist when he died, penniless and unrecognized. She was proud to be one of his most avid supporters while he lived.

She primed the canvas with a thin layer of white gesso before she loaded the brush with a dark blend of Prussian blue and burnt sienna. She liked wet-on-wet painting, which of course was artistic blasphemy to the Grand Poobahs in Thompson. Never mind the number of brilliant Baroque and Impressionist painters who explored the technique, it was an obscene practice, done only by pseudo-artists. She always wanted to ask them if they really considered Van Gogh or Monet to be pseudo-artists. They used it a time or two, themselves. If so, she would proudly wear the banner of pseudo-artist.

She didn’t like to plan the work. Submission to the muse was a strange magic, like the anticipation of following a road just to see where it led. Painting was akin to reading a suspenseful novel, and the most exciting stories left you in question right until the final chapter.

Narrow-minded gallery owners were a minor issue in the grand scheme of life. She was happy to paint at all. It was still novel to paint when her schedule allowed, instead of only when she could get away with it. Grandmother had nearly obliterated her artistic interests. Nearly two decades of you’re too stupid to do anything had all, but smothered the desire. Painting was not a tool of rebellion against that childhood, so much as a release from it. She needed years of therapy