When an affluent, emotionally detached guy lends shelter to Lexi, a homeless woman, he is intrigued to her strength. Their strange relationship grows until he wanders into his garage unexpectedly and discovers something frightening. Who exactly is Lexi, and what is she hiding? I had everything money could buy, including a vast home, fancy cars, and more money than I could possibly spend in a lifetime. However, there was an empty space inside that I couldn’t fill.
I’d never had a family because women seemed to want me just for the money I inherited from my parents. At sixty-one, I couldn’t help but wish I had done things differently. I tapped the steering wheel absently, attempting to remove the familiar weight from my chest. That’s when I noticed an unkempt woman bending over a garbage can. I slowed the automobile, unsure why I bothered. People like her were ubiquitous, right? But there was something about the way she moved, her skinny arms searching through the debris with grim determination, that spoke to something deep within me.
She appeared delicate yet fierce, as if she was fighting for survival through pure willpower. Before I knew what I was doing, I’d pulled over. The engine hummed as I pulled down the window and watched her from the protection of my car. She looked up, surprised. Her eyes were wide, and I wondered whether she was going to run. However, she didn’t. Instead, she straightened up and brushed her hands across her old jeans.
“Do you need some help?” I inquired, my voice sounding weird even to my ears. It wasn’t like me to approach strangers, let alone invite danger into my life.”You offering?” Her voice was keen, but also jaded, as if she had heard every empty promise before. “I don’t know.” The words came out before I could think them through. I got out of the automobile. “I just saw you there and… well, it didn’t seem right.”
She folded her arms over her chest, her eyes never leaving mine. “What’s not right is life.” She gave a sour laugh. “And adultery, especially with bad husbands. But you don’t appear to be really knowledgeable about that.”
I winced, even though I knew she was correct.
“Maybe not.” I paused, wondering how to go. “Do you have a place to go tonight?” She hesitated, her gaze flitting away for a moment before returning to mine. “No.” The word lingered in the air between us. This was all I needed to hear.”Look, I’ve got a garage. Well, it’s more of a guest house. You may stay there till you get your footing.” I expected her to laugh in my face and tell me to go to hell. Instead, she only blinked at me, the edges of her impenetrable veneer beginning to crumble.
“I don’t take charity,” she continued, her voice softer and more vulnerable. “It’s not charity,” I said, though I wasn’t exactly sure what it was. “It’s simply a place to stay. “No strings attached.” “Okay. “Just for the night,” she said. “I’m Lexi, by the way.” The journey back to the estate was silent. She sat in the passenger seat, looking out the window with her arms wrapped about herself like a shield.
When we arrived, I took her to the garage-turned-guest house. It wasn’t luxurious, but it was adequate for someone to live in. “You can stay here,” I answered, indicating the small space. “There’s food in the fridge, too.” “Thanks,” she mumbled. Lexi stayed in the garage for the following three days, although we met up for dinners on occasion. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something about her appealed to me.
Perhaps it was her ability to persevere in the face of adversity, or the loneliness I saw in her eyes, which mirrored mine. Perhaps it was simply that I no longer felt so alone. One night, while we sat across from each other at supper, she started to open up. “I used to be an artist,” she admitted, her voice quiet. “I tried to be, anyway. I had a little gallery with few shows… But everything fell apart.
“What happened?” I inquired, genuinely curious. She laughed, but the sound sounded hollow. “Life happens. My spouse left me for a younger lady, became pregnant, and kicked me out. “My entire life unraveled after that.” “I’m sorry,” I mumbled. She shrugged. “It’s in the past.” But I could tell it wasn’t; not truly. The ache was still present, barely below the surface. I was very familiar with the feeling.
As time passed, I found myself looking forward to our discussions. Lexi’s sharp wit and caustic sense of humor pierced through the melancholy of my vacant land. Slowly, the hollow space within me appeared to lessen. Everything changed in one afternoon. I’d been hurrying around looking for an air pump for one of my automobiles’ tires. I rushed into the garage without knocking, planning to grab it immediately and depart. But what I saw stopped me cold.4
There were dozens of paintings on the floor. Of me. Or, more accurately, hideous replicas of me. One painting depicted me with shackles around my neck, while another showed blood streaming from my eyes. In the corner, one of myself was resting in a casket. I felt a rush of sickness come over me. Was this the how she saw me? After all I had done for her?
I backed out of the room before she noticed me, my heart racing. That night, as we sat down to supper, I couldn’t get the images out of my mind. When I glanced at Lexi, all I saw were those terrible portraits. Finally, I could not take it anymore. “Lexi,” I murmured with a tense voice. “What the hell are those paintings?” Her fork clattered onto the dish. “What are you talking about?”
“I saw them,” I admitted, my voice rising despite my efforts to remain cool. “The paintings of myself. Chains, blood, and a coffin. “What the hell is that?” Her face turned pallid. “I didn’t mean for you to see those,” she said. “Well, I did,” I replied bitterly. “Is this how you perceive me? “As some monster?” “No, it’s not that.” She wiped her eyes, her voice shaky. “I was just angry.” I lost everything, but you have so much. It wasn’t fair, but I couldn’t help it. “I needed to let it out.””So you painted me like a villain?” I inquired, my voice harsh.
She nodded, humiliation etched on her face. “I’m sorry.” I sat back, allowing the silence to spread between us. I wanted to forgive her. I wanted to comprehend. But I could not. “I think it’s time for you to go,” I murmured, my voice flat. Lexi’s eyes widened. “Wait, please—” “No,” I interrupted. “It is over. “You need to leave.” The next morning, I helped her pack her possessions and took her to a local shelter. She did not say much, and neither did I. Before she got out of the car, I gave her a couple hundred bucks.
She hesitated before taking the money with quivering palms.Weeks passed, but I couldn’t shake the sense of loss. Not only because of the terrible artwork, but also because of what we had previously experienced. There had been warmth and connectedness, which I hadn’t felt in years. Then, one day, I received a parcel at my door. Inside was a painting, but this one was unique. It was neither hideous nor perverted. It was a serene portrait of me, caught with a calmness I had not realized I possessed.
The parcel contained a note with Lexi’s name and phone number scrawled at the bottom. My finger hovered over the call button, and my pulse pounded faster than it had in years. Getting worked up about a phone conversation seemed foolish, but there was a lot more at stake than I cared to accept. I gulped hard and pressed “Call” before I could question myself again. It rang twice before she answered.
“Hello?” Her voice sounded hesitating, as if she realized it could only be me. I cleared my throat. “Lexi. It’s me. I received your painting. It’s beautiful.” Thank you. I wasn’t sure if you would enjoy it. I felt I owed you something more than… well, those other paintings.” “You did not owe me anything, Lexi. I wasn’t very fair to you either.” “You had every right to be upset.” Her voice was more steady now. “What I painted were things I needed to get off my chest, but they weren’t actually about you. You were just… there. “I am sorry.”
“You do not have to apologize, Lexi. I forgiven you the instant I saw the painting. Her breath caught. “You did?” “I did,” I said, and I meant it. It wasn’t only the artwork that swayed my opinion; it was the nagging suspicion that I had let something meaningful slip through my fingers because I was too terrified to confront my anguish. “And… well, I’ve been thinking… maybe we could start over.”
“What do you mean?” “Maybe we can chat. Perhaps over dinner? “If you want.” “I’d like that,” she said. “I’d really like that.” We arranged to meet in a few days. Lexi informed me that she used the money I provided her to buy new clothes and acquire a job. She had planned to move into an apartment after she earned her first salary. I couldn’t help but smile at the prospect of eating supper with Lexi again.
