S5E1: "Art Therapy", by M. Regan

Ninth Story Studios giving Story a voice. Welcome to the list, Get ready to take the ride. Well, hello there, this is Daniel Floyzak and this is Victoria's Lift Season five, episode number one. Today's episode was written for us by the very talented m Regan. They have written audio fiction for Shadows at the Door, The Wicked Library, and our composer Nicos Project Connections. They also recently released a novel, twenty one Grahams, which is absolutely

wonderful. Do get yourself a copy. So before we begin, a sincere thank you to those of you supporting the show on Patreon. You truly make the show possible. It's because of your support that I can continue to pay the very talented authors, voice actors and composer. Simply, it's your support that allows us to make sure those who contribute to the show don't work for free. And a very special shout out to one of our supporters in Peris,

France, Joan cha jovous verre biontu. If you're not yet supporting the show, you can do that at patreon dot com forward slash Victoria's Lift. For as little as two dollars a month, you can help make the show you love possible and get fun rewards. A lot of hard work and money goes into making Victoria's Lift, and I really do rely on this support to

help me pay the authors, voice actors, composer and artists. In addition to knowing you're a part of making the show possible, you also get fun rewards like ad free episodes at higher bit rates, access to bonus story and more. You can support us at patreon dot com. Forward Slash Victoria's Left. Today's story is performed by Me, Daniel Foytek Addison Peacock, GP McKenzie, and of course Ambercollins as our girl Victoria. The episode also, of

course features a custom score by nikovites Off. We talk of dreams. This story is a poignant, beautiful and dark tale and it's a perfect way to kick off the new season. Now step on board and let's go for a ride as we present a tale about coming to terms with deep loss. In art therapy, I M Regan Victoria's Left, Season five, Episode one, Art Therapy by M Regan. There is a basket on the front desk,

a little wicker one. It stans strands woven into an assemblage of hollow stars, Robin hadn't lingered over it when checking in, Confused as they had been by a building that looked nothing like Google Maps had said it would, and the fact that a child appeared to be the only available member of its staff. But the girl seemed to know what she was doing, and this place did tout itself as being family run, so Robin hadn't asked questions. They

simply allowed themselves to be directed towards one of the lobby's velveteen chairs. Now that they are settled in, though, Robin finds themselves wishing they had borrowed that basket. Sure they could ask after it, or even get up and grab it themselves, but God only knew the sort of looks and questions that doing so would earn them, which would in turn defeat the whole purpose of

collecting it. The reason they want that arrangement of purple carnation, snapdragons and ferns is to avoid judgment, because, as it is working with the subject that they've chosen, judgment is inevitable. Robin is going to get judged, and they'll undoubtedly deserve it. Not that the little girl has said or done anything to suggest she might disapprove of Robin's rendition of her. If anything, she has been very supportive, or at least very still, which, when

it comes to modeling, is more or less the same thing. But however polite her parents had raised her to be, that demureness would no doubt change to derision when she saw the exceptionally unflattering nature of Robin's work. So Robin, tired and twitching, clutches their sketch book closer to their chest, hiding the unfinished portrait from view. Old habits as the expression says, It's not what Rosette would have said, Robin. Half the reason you think you're terrible

in art is because you draw everything but t Rex songs. I promise I won't look all right, But please, I'm begging you to put the sketch pad on the table, give yourself a chance. Here in awkward, erratic motions, Robin drags a number two pencil up and down the paper they are presently sullying. Lying by line by line, bits by bits by bits, the pencil gives more and more and more of itself away. And for what This doodle doesn't mean anything now, and it won't mean anything when it's finished.

It's a waste of a drawing in every sense of the word. Robin can't even hear the quiet sacrifice being made by the graphite. Its loss is lost beneath the tinkle of the child's music box. They shouldn't have let themselves get coerced in the coming year. They should have lined this is all. It's such a waste. It's not excuse me, I can't get yet. I'm afraid. But when we're finished here, I hoped to okay, you know, I'm sorry. What did you say? Your aim? Was?

I? Victoria? Right? Victoria? Look, I appreciate the company, but you don't have to wait here with me if if you're busy, or I mean, you can if you want. I guess, but I'm just I don't know how long I'm going to have to be here. And I'm sure you yeah, there's probably better things you could be doing with your time. And aren't you a poet? Robin isn't sure what startles them more, the abruptness of this non sequitor or the fact that Victoria is correct, they

are a poet. How does she know that? Though it's not like Robin's reputation precedes them exactly has she been told. It's possible Robin supposes Rosette's brother had been the one who had set up and dragged Robin to this appointment. Maybe Robin's poetry had come up as part of the new patient information that Bastion had supplied. I suppose that makes sense. Still, Robin finds themselves unable to do anything but stare at the child in surprise. You've been published a

substantial number of times. Your work is quite good. I was especially fond of your recent piece in the dead Lands, the one about the ghost guiding the little girl. What was that called again, um Owl's Head nineteen eighties. Yes, that one, But after reading it, I rather thought you'd be better with words, more intentional, with meaning. That's what's important to you, isn't it words? Saying them? I mean? Yeah, But writing is different. Okay, you can you can take time to choose what

you want to say. I am fond of choices, and when you're writing, you can always go back and delete something or edit it or add to it, and you can't do that when speaking. I'm not as good at speaking. I don't really want to talk about myself. That's unfortunate given where you are yes, But my session hasn't started yet, so please, I'm trying to practice practice what drawing. I'm not sure what kind of art I'll be asked to try during therapy, so I figured i'd well practice. I

just want to be good enough to be told I can be done. I don't believe that's how therapy works. I don't want to talk about that either, Victoria kitchy. Is there anything you do want to talk about? There isn't really, But if Victoria is going to insist on conversation, then Robin would rather be the one to steer it. We could talk about you, or you could tell me about that music box you've been playing with. Is it an heirloom? It's very pretty and the music is nice, thank you.

I am fond of it, cheeky as it can be at times. Giggling to herself, Victoria flicks the edge of the music box as if in gentle rebuke. For a moment, the melody falters the box, trilling a discordant protest. Not that it's an actual response to Victoria's teasing, of course, It's nothing so anthropomorphic as all that. It's simply that the mechanisms within it have been jarred obviously. Sure, well be careful with it anyway it looks old. I'd hate to see it break. Oh you'd not be alone

in that. Are you going to include it? What my music box? Are you going to include it in your drawing? Would you like me to hold it a certain way? I'm happy to pose it, however the artiste sees fit. Oh no, it's okay. I wasn't planning to. I'm not really in There's a reason I'm practicing. I'm more of a poet, like you said, no real talent at drawing, even if they had given themselves a chance, as Rosette would have put it, Victorious music boxes far

beyond Robin's underwhelming artistic abilities. Sure, the box itself is simple, but the looping arrangement of Celtic knots welded onto its lid are intricate enough to hurt the eyes. Robin tries not to linger on them, or to follow the girl's finger. She begins to idly trace their ceaselessness. Beautiful, aren't they? This one here on the top. It's called a darinaut. It's designed after the Celts cranbetha or tree of Life, which was itself, likely inspired

by the noises sacred Igdrasil. The diaryonaut is a symbol for strength, wisdom, power and endurance, designed to represent the hollowed oak and its roots. Do you like symbolism, Robin? It's a powerful tool for artists of all ILKs, as I understand it and use the hide lots of secrets, coded messages like puzzles. Do you enjoy solving puzzles? I guess? There is a vase on the end table, shared equally by Victoria's chase, lounge and

Robin's armchair. It contains a plummy bunch of white chrysantheums, which, as ornamental arrangements go, is far simpler than the basket on the front desk. No point in trying to impress guests who have made it this far into the building, Robin supposes. But whatever the chrysanthemums might lack in creativity, they make up for and scent. They smell exceptionally fresh, almost unpleasantly fresh.

The cold, pungent earthiness of their fragrance is enough to make Robin uncomfortably aware of the place from which all flowers come, What makes the loam from? Whence they grow. I'm going to rate you a list of what to plant after. It'll be a secret until then, but you have to promise me that you'll do it. Will you promise Robin? Robin hadn't promised. Robin doesn't remember what they had said, but they remember that they hadn't promised.

Robin stares at the chrysanthemums until their vision blurs and the petals begin to look a pale, sallow yellow. You you must do a lot of puzzles yourself. Why did you think that? It's just you're pretty good at sitting still as well? Oh, I've had practice seen and not heard. As the saying goes, that's a fair summary of modeling too, I get it, of course, I get why. Like in figure classes, you can't be moving around and throwing off the students or distracting them. Have you done any

modeling before besides right now? I mean me? Oh no, I have been scouted in the past, and my friend Anna once took a lovely photograph of me. I believe it was put on display in a gallery for a time. But I'm hardly what anyone would call a model. How about you? Are we allowed to talk about you yet? You've got quite a bit of experience yourself. I always think of birdies as creatures who enjoy mister flattering around like You're rather content to stay pitched launch you, Robin. The downward

stroke of Robin's pencil is abruptly ended by the spasm of their hand. I've had more practice modeling than drawing, I guess, pursing their lips. Robin considers the ugly leaden starburst that they have created, the silvery pock that now mars what should have been porcelain's skin. It looks awful. Not that the rest of Robin's drawing has been coming along any better. Their lines are too thick or too dark, maybe both. Something had gone very wrong anyway,

and Robin can't quite pinpoint the root cause Beneath the symptoms. They can only frown at this uncanny cartoon that defiles their sketchpad on paper. Victoria's lopsided eyes stare back her pigtails. A pair of gravity defying corkscrews prod uncomfortably at the white abyss. The vintage violet dress she wears is a patchwork of sharp angles. If Robin had not spent the past few weeks making a concerted effort to keep everything together. They would have ripped the page and the sketchbook, and

god knows what else to ribbons. Would you like to talk about the modeling practice you've had, not really shading? Maybe shading will help. Robin applies themselves to pooling shadows beneath Victoria's nose and chin, pressing so hard with their pencil that the surface of those puddles started to shine with reflected light. Excess lead is wafted about by their frantic scratching. Those moats become smudges beneath the

heel of their palm. Darkness spread, leaving stains exclusively where Robin doesn't want them. Yeah, that sounds about right. Robin has said it before, and they'll say it again. They're shit at this. You are not shit at this. You're dramatic, that's all. Look see here, your proportions are getting better, and there's a lot of great energy to this party. Where her hair hits her shoulder. It's a good effort, sweetheart. Robin can almost hear Rosette say her voice soft in that way it would get when

she was trying not to laugh at her poor frustrated partner. You know, a poem and a sketch are both built from connective lines, but in the case of the latter, those lines don't need to be quite so distinct. Maybe try again, stubbornly, bitterly, Robin does not try again. They keep adding more lines, more shadows, more, more more, until the whole damn page is less a portrait of Victoria and more a reproduction of that

writhing black pit that exists where Robin's heart had once beat. Poised demurely on the end of her seat, Victoria cocks her head, watching with amused interest as Robin's scribbles go from guarded to harsh, too wildly erratic. What are you doing moving? Isn't that the question I'm expressing myself? Is something? The matter is something. The matter is something. The matter. Robin wants

to laugh. They can feel the sharp of the sound and the base of their throat digging into soft, vulnerable places in a way that leeve them tasting blood. Maybe opening their mouth and spinning out those broken noises would help, But no, no, Robin suppresses the urge. Laughing would be inappropriate. Laughing would make Robin look crazy. Robin is already worried that they are going

crazy. Maybe it's because of this antiquated space, but they find themselves imagining the inside of their own soul like it is one of those old fashioned phone operator rooms, their heart and brain connected by a switchboard of multicolored cables, and they are desperately yanking at live quartz, taking them out of plugs and sockets because they know that all the wires have recently been crossed, and they just haven't had the time or the energy to figure out how to fix them.

Theoretically, Robin supposes now would be the time to fix them. Now is when they ought to muster up what little energy they have and try to sort everything else. That's the reason people go to therapy, isn't it. Robin presses their fingers flat to the paper, smearing its Gordian tangle of lines into a single stag. That's swirling awfulness. It's fine, it doesn't have to be. It's nothing. I mean, it's not nothing. It's I'm

sorry. Are you why I'm pain dramatic? You're experiencing emotions. That is a difference. I don't want to talk about it. And how has that been working out for you? For someone who puts so much stock in words, Robin. You really are quite terrible at using them, aren't you. I did say so you did. But self awareness doesn't do you any good if you don't act upon that knowledge, meaning that there is a time and

place for speaking, and a time and a place for silence. And I rather think that using your words is what you ought to be practicing right now, not drawings. Fine, we can talk more. You mentioned being scattered. How is that? Well, the job never went anywhere except my own base VID. But I suppose I meet interesting people. This isn't about me, though, Robin. Let's discuss who you meet while modeling A name was

rosette en away? I believe it is a strange sensation, Robin moles to be aware of all their skin, the way it trembles and itches and aches, and yet unable to feel anything through it, nothing beneath it. All that holds them together are tense threads of static, the collapse or gravity of the pit that has been growing within their chest since the day, since the day that rosettes Robin. Just go home, Okay, I'm busy. I have to finish this before It's already hard to hold the paper sheet up I

don't have much. There isn't much time. One. Have you heard that old superstition, the one about cameras and how they track people's south lashes? Flickering low Victoria's shifts to catch Robin's eyes, holding their gaze over the zenias and the vase at the end of the table. The blossoms are a natural kaleidoscope, comprised of reflections and versions and complimentary copies, all shifting like shards

of loose glass. Well, that would be the poetic comparison, anyway, the analogy that Robin might have written before everything, But now what each pedal most reminds Robin of our brushstrokes? Hundreds of meticulous brushstrokes layered with infinite patients. There are reds and yellows, There are whites and magentas. There are mixes that, in their gradients, blend the bouquet into a cohesive whole, almost literally. Robin would believe if the blending were literal, something accomplished with

tempera and time. There is an intensity to the flowers colors, a pureness of hue that to this point they have only seen in pink pigments squeezed directly from the tube. The thought, in turn, squeezes something in Robin's chest. Victoria offers a sympathetic giggle. I Robin, you needn't worry about that.

It is only then that it occurs to Robin that something doesn't seem right about this, about any of this, really, but especially about how vibrant those zinnias are, or the fact that there are zennias here at all. The smile that spreads across Victoria's face, it's corners crawling like a vine of great bindweed, her lips curled beneath the damask roses of her cheeks, and above those blooms, a little girl's eyes glow with the greenness of summer leaves.

My soul isn't stuck in some funny old camerap Neither is yours, for that matter, if Robin had been paying better attention might have occurred to them that this was a very strange comfort to offer. As it is, they are too busy trying to piece together their jumbled thoughts and the puzzle that grows before them. I know it's not photographs, that's still people as the lives away. It's paintings, is it. I I'm sorry, I just did I miss something or someone? Did someone come by? I don't believe.

So why those changed the flowers? They're different now, I should hope. So transformation is the resondetra of this place. What tell me more about how painting is still a person's life. I don't think. No, no, Look, I'm sure your mom or dad or whoever is a good therapist, and that you've picked up a few tips and tricks from them. But I don't think I'm comfortable you've got it all well and silly. My parents aren't

therapists, nor am I you for that matter? Right? Sure, okay, then I'm sure whoever it is you're related to in this building is a good therapist. Personally, I wouldn't call my little brother a good anything. You're a little No No, I meant whoever on staff you're related to, the person that let you play behind the front desk, or unless wait, are you another patient? Did all of my personal information get given to another patient? I told you I'm not a patient. I'm Victoria and I am

here to help. Now. Is your drawing just about Finnish Robin? I think it's time we added it to the gallery. You have a gallery, yes, and no, the gallery is in my building. That much is true, but it actually belongs to you. How could it possibly belong to me? You'll understand when you see it. Come along. It's just a lift ride away. The lift in question is an elegant snarl of wirework and polished brass, waiting with doors wide open on the far end of the lobby.

Even if Robin hadn't been instructed to wait, they wouldn't have risked taking the elevator. It is an antiquated thing, much like the building that it services, which is all well and good when it comes to interior design, but technology. Robin winces as they are half guided, half pulled into the empty car, the molders and their grimace grinding his metal moans beneath their feet. The sound is disconcertingly similar to that of someone in agony, and echoes

like a paintbrush falling from pain crippled hands. Can't we take the stairs please? I'm afraid not stairs offered too much autonomy. What do you mean by that? I mean that if you'd been able to climb the stairs and face what needed facing by your own power, you wouldn't have found yourself here in the first place. How could you possibly know on the day of Rosette's death,

how long did you stand at the base of the hospital steps. If Robin hadn't already been staring at the floor, willing it to maintain a structural integrity, then they would have believed that had collapsed beneath them, dropping them into the void. That's not fair. How long, Robin, You don't understand? How long an hour? When I got to the hospital, she was still alive. That's what they told me after I I was so angry. I couldn't make my body move. I couldn't take the first step.

I just stood there staring at them. That's why I never got to say goodbye, exactly. And so I'm afraid the stairs won't take you to the place you need to go. Fingernails digging into their atrocious sketch, Robin sniffles, glowering at their acrylic spattered shoes. There were still scuff marks on the toecaps left behind or the concrete of that first step. It wasn't my fault, not really, not completely. Rosette was the one who told me to

leave. She was the one who wanted to finish that stupid picture. It was more important to her than spending time with me, even at the very end. Yes, that was a funny choice in your part on my part. Well, she gave you another option, didn't she. I try not to judge more than is necessary, but I must say I struggle to understand why you choose to honor her second request rather than her first. I suppose a proper therapist might cite the very human instinct to let go of something before

it can hurt you. That does that really apply here? It seems to me that you're much more deeply hurt now than you would have been otherwise. Robin wants to scream at her, would scream at her were they able, But victorious words had struck them like a punch to the guts, rendering Robin breathless, speechless, and stunned. All that moves or Robin's molten glass tears, threatening blisters as they slide down their cheeks. One lends atop the drawing,

further smearing Robin's horrendous rendition of Victoria. The other splatter on the elevator's floor tiles, oozing through the cracks and the grouts and feeding what grows there? Wait, what grows there? Turning their head, Robin stares into the dirt, dark shadows that can seal the lift's back corner. And yes, there, just there, there's a plant, a flower, a creeping, lignious stalk, poking through the grate where the wall and flooring meat. It

is small, yet and as immaculate as any springtime bud. But before Robin's bleary eyes, a cluster of star white flowers bloom upon that straining branch, A series of strange constellations connected by lines drawn down silken petals. Robin, baffled, blinks at the Asphodel. The Asphodel resolute waves hello, or it seems to anyway. It doesn't really, no, of course not. It's it's simply stuck in the lifts, hidden mechanics made to move as the gears

do. Why is it there, though? How? Where is it rooted in the shaft's foundation If a dandelion can push through cement, Robin reasons it's technically feasible. But christ is it taller? Now? Just a moment ago, it barely reached Robin's ankle. Now it's at their shin their knee, and oh, there's another one and a third the tallest of its spikes, reaching through the ornate bars that not beneath the operating panel. Idea ike rather thought we had more time. I ain't vote for chattering, I suppose six

blow. The announcement is punctuated by a belle's cheery toll and the unpleasant elastic straining of weeds struggling to remain rooted. Their effort is valiant, no match for the lift. Crack snap, and the Asphodel's petals become a shower at pale meteors. Mystifying Robin can do nothing but continue to stare. The ruined stems remain threaded through the elevator's decorative gaps, clinging to the car's bottom with the tenacity of severed hands. Beneath the lift's rumbles, Robin can hear those

desiccated offshoots jutter and jabber and jostle around uselessly. It is useless, isn't it? What regret? Unless it inspires a matter of change, It's useless. What are you talking about? Did you just read my mind? Here we are at the funeral. Robin had overheard one of Rosette's more new agy ants make allusions to the veil, and how tragic it was that her niece

was now beyond it. The man with whom she had been talking nodded his somber agreement, but Robin had wanted to scream at the wrongness of the words. The stupidity of the idiom. Veil is gossamer, thin, elegant, and easy to remove. But death. Death is an interminable pit of cold. Soil presses, and it processes, and it does not allow escape.

There is no other side to it. It cannot be shaken off, or dug from, or opened up. Yet as the doors of Victoria's lift draw apart, they move with such ineffable smoothness Robin finds themselves reminded of a veil beyond it. Beyond it is Rosette's studio apartment. This isn't possible. It can't be possible. It shouldn't be possible. The very idea is insane.

But there is no mistaking the room that waits beyond the elevator's threshold, as small and as sunlit as it had always been, it is exactly as Robin knows it should be. Not one pen is out of place. There in the corner is the wobbly old stool that Robin used to model on it's uneven leg missing flakes of blue paint. There on the kitchenette counter is the porcelain bowl that Rosette used for water and painting after the incident with the team mug.

And there on the window seat is the unfurled, crocheted blanket, A signal developed to let the other know that they needed to sit down and talk. So I got a call from the doctor today about my test results, and the NUDS wasn't good, Robin. A surge of emotion rushes through Robin, too virulent and powerful to be understood. All they can do is hold their breath and endure it. They try not to be swept away. Come back, please, Robin. You've been to enough exhibits to realize that they

are meant to be viewed in a certain order. Robin startles, finding themselves in the middle of the room before they even realized they'd moved. Victoria lingers behind them, staring pointedly at a nearby wall. Robin doesn't question her attention at first, having themselves spent countless hours admiring the rainbows painted across it by

Rosette. Suncatchers. But then Victoria begins to read aloud, and Robin's own focus shifts from the overgrown macromay plant anchors to an unfamiliar plaque Welcome to the Egglan Team Gallery. A tangle of the flowers in question cascade over the signs edges, hanging from its ornate metalwork by the hooks of its thorns. The sunburst yellow center of the blossoms paint their own rainbows, and Robin gas at the prismatic petals, vibrantly pink and smelling of apples. This no, this

doesn't make sense. That isn't it, Given your artistic history and the theme of the collection, I argue that it's exceptionally well suited. Not the name. I mean this, all of this. This isn't an art gallery, an apartment. It's Rosette's apartment. Except except it can't be that either. We sold Rosette's apartment months ago. This stuff too, This can't be here. We can't be here, and we aren't. We aren't here, at least not the here to which you are referring. Like I said, we're

in your gallery in my building. There's knowing that makes you feel better or worse. I feel like I'm losing my mind. Believe me, there are worse things to lose. Why are you doing this? The clues in the name. Honestly, Robin, symbolism is as prevalent in poetry as it is in physical art. Start thinking like an artist, a poet. A puzzle's over, now, come along, take me on the ground tour. Oh, let's start over here, shall we. With one small hand, Victoria

gestures to a canvas hung on the other side of the room. Robin doesn't remember there being a painting above the wobbly old stool, but much like the bouquet in the lobby, it's undeniably there. Now. Robin isn't even surprised anymore, nor do they protest when Victoria gently guides them closer. Their footfalls muffled by Warren carpet and an elegiac melody hidden somewhere amongst Rosette's many trinkets. The music box trips over the notes of a chord. Tell me about this

painting, please. It's a closeup of petunias done in watercolors. And true art is never just what one sees on the surface. There is always other messages. Maybe they are meant for one person, or all people, or just the artists themselves, but they are always there. So dig deeper day that Peginia's mean Robert, they mean resentment, they mean anger. I've a

what life. Everything my parents had basically washed their hands of me. I was stuck sharing a house with six of the world's shittiest roommates, and on top of that, none of my poetry was selling. I guess I wasn't suffering quite enough, you know, to be a real artist. So I'd come over to Rosette's place and I'd sit on this stool and she'd let me bitch about it. I guess I was animated when I ranted, because one day she asked if she could sketch me while listening. I figured it was

at least I could do. I didn't want to waste her time. And eventually, I don't know, I didn't have as much to complain about, and me modeling for Rosette just became a thing. And that made you angry too. You've resented that. No, No, many flowers symbolize more than one thing. Petunias can refer to anger and resentment, but also to hope. They used to be gifted to people you wanted to spend time with because

you found their presence soothing intriguing. And what about that piece. Following Victoria's gaze to the kitchen att counter, Robin notices a fresco of wax and pink camellias flourishing behind the porcelain bowl. The breath that escapes them is tinged more with amusement than alarm, and again they do not resist Victoria's poll when she drags them closer, trying to get a better look at the installation. Camelias in general represent love, gratitude, and devotion, but pink ones are often

a symbol of longing. I've been casually modeling for Rosette for about a year when she asked if I might be comfortable hosing well nake, Oh dear, it was a perfectly professional request, it really was. Drawing nude bodies is so common a practice in the art world. Rose I didn't even bat an eyelash asking, and I didn't mind. I'd done it before, even for that figures class I'd worked for the one we'd met in, so I didn't

think anything of it, and I don't think she really did either. But then, well, when my clothes actually came off, she got so blustered. Honestly, it was adorable, well at least until she mixed up her tea in a cup of old paint water. Then it was hilarious. And the drawing she didn't finish it. We got distracted by other things. After that we were together. But how long? Not long enough? What a

pity is that a theme of this picture? Robin does not offer an answer because they are directed to the window seat, where propped in the folds of the rumpled crochet blanket is a photo framed sketch of purple hyacinth sprouting in a garden. Well is that the theme? Yes, four years isn't nothing. But we could have had more. We should have had more, even just a little more. But the cancer spread so damn fast, and Rosette was

adamant that she complete one last painting. Finishing It was all that mattered to her. It was more important than spending time with her friends, or her family or o Ye, that fucking picture consumed the rest of Rosette's life. She could have spent it on so much else, on anything else, Or we could have gone to the botanical garden one last time. We could have made magnetic poetry. We could have played god damn bananagrams with her brother.

I wouldn't have cared, just so long as we could have spent that time together. But no, she locked me out, and five months later she was dead, and we'll never get that time back. Have you ever seen Rosette Greenaway's final painting? I don't want to see it. She willed it to you. I said, I don't want to see it. And Rosette wanted you to plant flowers in her memory, but you refused. What else was she meant to do? Robin recoils the accusation, landing with the physicality

of a slap. Blood rises in their cheeks, their ears ring, and beneath the tinny residence of their own sting hurt. Robin hears again the memory of Rosette's voice, back when she would still allow Robin to visit. I'm going to write you a list of what to plan. There'll be a secret until then, but you have to promise me that you'll do it. Will you promise, Robin? Robin hadn't promised. Robin doesn't remember what they'd said, but that doesn't matter anymore. They don't need to remember, because they

can hear it and their own words and their own voice. The reply drifts from the direction of the kitchen table, threaded like lyrics through the melody of the music box. I no, I can't, Rosette. I'm sorry, I just I couldn't handle watching anything else die, not after this. There is no point to the hand that Robin claps over their mouth. It does nothing change, just nothing. Their rejection still echoes, and the music box

still plays louder with every step Robin takes towards the table. Robin almost doesn't recognize that table. When Rosette was alive, it was always blotted with pastels and charcoal, laden with bottles and brushes and t shirts. She hadn't meant to turn into paint rags, but one accident led to another, and Rosette never said no to more paint rags. That was then, though Now it's

clean. All the stains have been scrubbed off, and there are only two things left atop it, victorious music box and a gilt framed canvas on a miniature easel draped with a piece of cloth. The fabric is gossamer, thin, elegant and easy to remove another veil. It flutters, revealing nothing. When Victoria moves to stand beside it, beside the picture, Robin needs to brace themselves against the table to remain upright. Your whole body weak is wet

paper, This is heart is long, and time is fleeting. Longfellow wrote that Rosette wanted to leave you with these living reminders once that would grow and flourish after she was gone. But you were too afraid of that which is inevitable. You forgot that an integral part of beauty is its transience. You wanted something that would last, and Rosette's sought to give that to you. That wasn't what I'd meant. That wasn't what I wanted. This isn't what

I wanted. I'm afraid that is irrelevant. What you wanted, what you meant, It means nothing now that moment has passed. What that matters is life in this moment, and whether you want it to or not, Robin, what you have in this moment is a choice to make, and what you need is to make it a choice. Rosette spent her last days completing this for you. That was her choice, but accepting that decision, respecting her wishes, acknowledging what she wanted to tell you, and coming to terms

with your loss. That is your choice. Rosette's painting looms on its makeshift plength, the spectral monument to what F's and what could have been, to so much and to nothing at all. The tears are starting to well again, white hot and pedaled as they spill down Robin's face. They smell like that elevator. They smell like Asphodel. It's not fair. I've never even cut to say goodbye. No you didn't, And whatever happens here, regardless

of what you decide, that won't change. But there is more than one way to bid a loved one farewell. Kisses, hugs, small tokens of remembrance, ultive candles and incense sticks to offer light in the dark, memorial photos and scrap books, smooth stones left on a cleaned grave. As I said, there is a time and a place for speaking, and a time and a place for silence. It isn't always about the words you use,

Robin. Often it is about the words you don't. As a poet, you surely must know that the shroud ripples and the answering quiet stirred by Robin's nid. Beneath those gentle black waves, Robin glimpses the promise of green,

verdant and vibrant, vivid and undying. They ripped the veil away. In the golden glow of afternoon, Rosette's canvas bursts into bloom, like a living thing, a phantasmagoric garden of painted poetry, where acrylics bleed into emotions, and emotions meld back into acrylics, as a wild and wonderful mess, woven into patterns that nature would struggle to allow, but by Rosette's hand, the

arrangement feels organic, feels real. Before Robin's eyes, colors dripped down the ruffled edges of gathered carnations, making the tips of their ivory petals blush. The magenta azelius beside them act as accent translucent and dew dropped and redolent of

stained glass. White clover fills the gaps between the pale purple flocks, while around a twirling braid of morning glories, cling pendant bundles of arbutus, there are orchids and tulips, asters and forget me nots, and they're in the center, caught an a delicate breeze, a waving patch of sweet peas. Robin can almost hear the blossoms whispering against each other. Soft is one hand releasing another. It is the sound of letting go. It is the sound

of a goodbye stood patiently beside Robin. Victoria lays a palm atop her music box, ending its song. You're very lucky, you know, am I. It's true that many of us are never afforded the chance to say goodbye to as we care about. But I think perhaps it's rare still to be a chosen recipient of such a goodbye, especially one is eloquent and beautiful as this. So, yes, you are very lucky. Now you will never forget that love doesn't die. Robin can think of nothing to say to this,

nothing that feels adequate anyway, But that is okay. Sometimes it is about the words one uses, but sometimes it is about the words they don't. Victoria, Yes, this painting was willed to me, right, you said that? So can I have it? Can I keep it? Goodness? Have you forgotten where we are? This is a gallery, Robin. You can't steal out from a gallery. But it's my gallery. This build is yours, but the gallery is mine. That's what you said. Ah, so I did well. Then I suppose it was for the taking.

Though this section of the exhibit will look awfully silly without something on display. I don't suppose you have a piece of art with which we might replace this one. It is only after the third of Victoria's increasingly pointed looks at Robin's fist that they remember there is something clutched within it, something they've held onto this whole time, the sketch, or the remnants of the sketch. Anyway, it looks less like Victoria than it ever had before. Honestly, it

looks less like a sketch than it ever had before. Crumpled and sweat blurred, it more closely resembles a bald up sheet of monochrome paper than it does a portrait remains. But when it opens up like a flower in the palm of Robin's hand, it almost makes sense. In spite of themselves, in spite of everything. Robin has to laugh. You drive a hard bargain, Victoria. I like it. It's a move. Smiling sobbing, Robin lifts

Rosette's painting from the little Wooden Easel replaces it with their own masterpiece. It's yours. Thank you for listening to today's episode of Victoria's Left. We're really happy that you joined us for the first episode of the new season, and we have a great season in store for you, as well as the second half of To Those Who Thrive in the Dark, our mini series by Christopher

Long. Today's author was m Regan with their story Art Therapy. Today's story featured me Daniel Foytech as the narrator, Addison Peacock as Rosette, g P. McKinsey as Robin, and Ambercollins as Victoria. Our season five producers are Daniel Foytech and Meg Williams. Our resident composer and music director is Nico Vedes of We Talk Of Dreams. Our art director is Jeanette Andromeda. Artwork for today's episode was created by Greg Schaefer, our webmaster and graphic designer. Our

editors are Meg Williams and Daniel Foytech. To find out more about today's contributors and our team, please visit Victoria'slift dot com and check out their biopages. If you'd like to help us keep bringing you Victoria's Adventures. Please consider supporting us on Patreon at patreon dot com forward slash Victoria's Lift. You can, of course follow us on social media on Instagram and Twitter at Victoria's Left. Victoria's Left is created by Ninth Story Studios LLLC. All rights reserved of what