Spitefic - how Ana should've reacted to Jose's portraits of her
Originally posted here. Realized I wanted to have it on my own lj.
I turn the corner, and I can see why I’ve been getting strange looks. Hanging on the far wall are seven huge portraits-of me. Me: pouting, laughing, scowling, serious, amused. All in super close up, all in black and white.
I stare blankly at them, stupefied, the blood draining from my face.
I remember José messing with the camera on a couple of occasions when he was visiting and when I’d been out with him as driver and photographer’s assistant. He took snapshots, or so I thought. Not these invasive candids.
The more I stare at them, the more upset and furious I get. It's not until my hand starts hurting that realize I've got my glass of wine in a white-knuckle grip. I swear to God that a red haze starts forming around the edges of my vision.
Someone says my name, and I whirl to see José again. He's smiling still, though it falters when he sees me. "Are you okay?"
My response is to dash my drink in his face. "You have some fucking nerve," I snarl as he splutters in shock. "Some real God-damn fucking nerve. You don't ask. You don't even fucking ask."
Embarrassment suffuses his face. "Ana-"
"Shut up!" I shrill before hurling my empty glass to the ground with as much force as I can possibly muster. The sound of shattering glass is unfortunately not as satisfying as I would have liked.
"Ana, you're making a scene," José hisses at me, his eyes darting around.
"I'm making a scene? I'm making a scene? What the fucking hell do you call that!" I cry, jabbing the finger at the portraits. "You imbecilic, sheep-shagging, goat-feltching, shit-sucking, flaming douche-canoe asshole of a plague-mottled, syphilis-rotted, impotent lickspittle little prick! What the hell do you think you're doing! Seriously! What the God-damn freaking hell!"
My chest is heaving as I struggle to draw in enough air. I can't get my fury out, though God knows I'm trying. I'm shaking, my nails are digging into my palms I'm clenching my fists so hard.
"I thought you'd be flattered," he replied, giving me his kicked-puppy look.
I slap him across the face hard enough that he stumbles, his own drink tumbling from his hand. My palm is stinging, and everyone is staring. I don't fucking care.
"Fuck you, José. Fuck you so very much," I spit. I snort, hard, then I literally spit in his face. The white, gobby mess dripping down his face suits the asshole perfectly. "Don't you ever contact me again. Don't you ever try to call me, or text me, or email me. I don't know you. You don't exist."
And with that, I shove past him and storm out.
I turn the corner, and I can see why I’ve been getting strange looks. Hanging on the far wall are seven huge portraits-of me. Me: pouting, laughing, scowling, serious, amused. All in super close up, all in black and white.
I stare blankly at them, stupefied, the blood draining from my face.
I remember José messing with the camera on a couple of occasions when he was visiting and when I’d been out with him as driver and photographer’s assistant. He took snapshots, or so I thought. Not these invasive candids.
The more I stare at them, the more upset and furious I get. It's not until my hand starts hurting that realize I've got my glass of wine in a white-knuckle grip. I swear to God that a red haze starts forming around the edges of my vision.
Someone says my name, and I whirl to see José again. He's smiling still, though it falters when he sees me. "Are you okay?"
My response is to dash my drink in his face. "You have some fucking nerve," I snarl as he splutters in shock. "Some real God-damn fucking nerve. You don't ask. You don't even fucking ask."
Embarrassment suffuses his face. "Ana-"
"Shut up!" I shrill before hurling my empty glass to the ground with as much force as I can possibly muster. The sound of shattering glass is unfortunately not as satisfying as I would have liked.
"Ana, you're making a scene," José hisses at me, his eyes darting around.
"I'm making a scene? I'm making a scene? What the fucking hell do you call that!" I cry, jabbing the finger at the portraits. "You imbecilic, sheep-shagging, goat-feltching, shit-sucking, flaming douche-canoe asshole of a plague-mottled, syphilis-rotted, impotent lickspittle little prick! What the hell do you think you're doing! Seriously! What the God-damn freaking hell!"
My chest is heaving as I struggle to draw in enough air. I can't get my fury out, though God knows I'm trying. I'm shaking, my nails are digging into my palms I'm clenching my fists so hard.
"I thought you'd be flattered," he replied, giving me his kicked-puppy look.
I slap him across the face hard enough that he stumbles, his own drink tumbling from his hand. My palm is stinging, and everyone is staring. I don't fucking care.
"Fuck you, José. Fuck you so very much," I spit. I snort, hard, then I literally spit in his face. The white, gobby mess dripping down his face suits the asshole perfectly. "Don't you ever contact me again. Don't you ever try to call me, or text me, or email me. I don't know you. You don't exist."
And with that, I shove past him and storm out.