The picture takes up most of the wall opposite my boyfriend’s bed. A photograph of white camellias in a crystal vase. I sit with my arms around my knees, naked under the duvet, watching the image through the conservation glass.
He is downstairs making breakfast. When it’s ready he will call me down and seat me in the sun in the small courtyard between his house and studio, where he’s set a table for one: crisp white cloth, spotless silver cutlery. He’ll serve me orange juice, granola and coffee.
The flowers in the photograph are larger than life, velvety like the soft white skin of my inner thigh. They have been positioned against a dark background to look like a Dutch vanitas painting, a reminder of mortality.
My boyfriend buys me gifts: a necklace with a silver charm in the shape of an open book. He tells me he wishes he could introduce me to his parents, but they are dead. He shows me off to his neighbors at a party, wearing a new dress he chose for me.
One day I wake to find him sitting on the bed beside me. I am lying on my stomach. The bottom half of my body is naked. He has lifted the covers and, although I cannot be sure, I think he has taken a photograph.
I start to have panic attacks at work. It’s a good excuse for him to pick me up in his late model Audi, drive me back to his house and put me to bed. There’s no need to call my family or friends. He will take care of me.
One evening he is scrolling through my mobile and finds I have been messaging a friend. He hurls the phone across the room where it smacks into the wall, barely missing the picture of the flowers.
“She’s a slut!” he hisses.
He holds me down on the bed, bites my ear, presses his hands over my face.
“You’re a slut too.”
The next morning, alone in bed, I stare at the white camellias. Their broad petals seem to billow as if in a light breeze. I narrow my gaze and the flowerheads look like they are moving towards me from out of the frame. There is an object in the image I hadn’t focussed on before. It is a small human skull.
My boyfriend calls me down to breakfast. I sit at the outdoor table with my hands folded neatly in my lap, as if I am about to be photographed. He pours orange juice and steps back to watch me drink it. My eyes flicker towards the gate.
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Clare Needham (she/her) is a writer, mother and civil servant from Aotearoa New Zealand. She was a founder and co-managing editor of JAAM literary magazine. Clare has published poetry, short fiction, reviews and author interviews. She recently rekindled a passion for writing creative nonfiction. Clare lives in a cottage in the hills with her teenager and their abundantly fluffy cat.
Artwork by Dinty W. Moore