Cast Adrift: The Portraits

"Mom? Dad? I'm gay," Delilah practiced, muttering under her breath as she enterd her bedroom.

In the morning, Delilah told her dad and her Step-mom about the art exhibit, about the artist's story, even about William Carter, her boss being there. But, she could not bring herself to utter the words, make her announcement.

While Delilah and Julia and Brian sat in Mass at St. Thomas Aquinas, Xandra Kahlick was on her cell phone making her plans to visit Deanna while in Aitchel, concluding the sale of her mother's estate. After ending the call with the beautiful, large breasted blonde, Xandra called Billy Adams and told the man she'd managed to pick up a Kitty Truehart painting. Billy squealed and insisted she allow him to frame the painting.

"Oh, oh, I, I am so excited!" the man lisped. "Do you know a Mr. Carter? He just called; he has a Truehart as well..."

"Yes, I know him," Xandra assured Billy. "He bought the painting I originally wanted."

"I'll accidentally rip it for you," Billy suggested and Xandra laughed.

"Please don't," Xandra said. "You'll understand when you see it. It is truly a masterpiece."

"Ah!" Billy gasped when he unrolled the painting. ""White. The matting, the matting must be white. I don't want any other color distracting from this."

"What color did you suggest for William Carter's painting?' Xandra asked, mildly curious.

"The green background; I suggested we go with a burgundy, a wine color," Billy admitted, studying the painting. "God! I just want to claw that bitch's eyes out! How dare she tear up that little girl's drawings?"

Xandra flew to Aitchel, Ohio and met with Deanna. IN public, the two blondes contented themselves with a quick kiss. Then, in Xandra's hotel room, they fell across Xandra's bed and hungrily kissed while undressing one another. Even as her lips bruised Deanna's lips, Xandra could not help but think of the short, chubby, sweet red head back in DeGarde, Louisiana.

"Miller and Swifter have each tendered bids on the airport property, Everett Fischer, Xandra's attorney informed Xandra when she showed up for the eight am meeting the following morning. "This might be concluded within a few days, or..."

"Or..." Xandra prompted.

"Or it could drag on for months," Everett Fischer admitted.

"Bullshit," Xandra spat. "Tell Miller and Swifter, the first one that gets me a bid exceeding one million gets it. But I sign nothing without a signed, dated and notarized offer in writing. Mr. Fischer, nothing should drag out this long."

"Well ah, see," the old man hemmed and hawed.

"Well ah, I do see. I do see that as long as Everett Fischer can drag this out, the more Everett Fischer can bill me for his services," Xandra snapped. "You know what? I. I should be charging you. Charging you for the airline fees, the hotel fees. "Signed, dated and notarized. And Mr. Fischer? I'm severely tempted to have an audit performed on this office."

Swifter lived up to their name; they were swifter than Miller and had a signed, dated and notarized bid of one point seven five million on the desk of Everett Fischer before ten a.m. that same day. Miller managed to get their bid of one point two million into the office just before the close of the business day.

"That, Mr. Fischer, is how you do business," Xandra snapped, taking the certified check.

"The frame is ready; oh my God, it's gorgeous," Billy declared when Xandra answered her phone.

"Billy, that painting is striking, it's bold, it's breath-taking, but I would hardly call it beautiful," Xandra stated, lazily playing with Deanna's nipple.

"Hmm? Oh! Oh, not the painting. You're right, it is breath-taking, but it is not beautiful. No, no, I meant my frame," Billy agreed. "See, I found a walnut? Has just that tint of green to the grain?"

True to her promise, Xandra did hang the painting in her library. Among the dark woods, the deep greens of the sedate office, the painting of vivid yellow and blood red with slashes of blues really stood out. Briefly, Xandra did wonder where William had chosen to hang his painting.

As Xandra called out to let her housekeeper, Mrs. Stern know she'd heard her, dinner was ready, William was in his new home, admiring the new painting in his formal living room. The primary color of the painting was the mist green walls. The girl's pink flesh and lemon blonde hair stood out against the mist green color. The mottled brown fur and grayish-white stuffing of the teddy bear toned down the jarring colors of the rest of the painting.

William admired the look of pleasure in the little girl's eyes. The artist, Kitty Truehart had possessed some incredible breasts and could not hide that sweet bubble butt of hers. Too bad she was such a psychotic bitch.

While William toasted the painting with a glass of St. Elizabeth's Premium Whiskey, in a modest brick home in Baylor Lake, Louisiana, a husband was hanging up the framed and mounted 'Milk' painting in their living room. His wife smiled a closed mouth smile and approved of the job he'd done in mounting and framing their prized purchase.

"Believe that little faggot wanted three hundred bucks?" the husband bragged.

The wife noticed the glue smear on the glass, but said nothing. She noticed that the top of the painting had at least three inches of hideous light green matting visible, whereas the bottom portion barely had any matting visible. And, she certainly would not have picked a flat black frame; the furniture in the room was antique white with deep blue accents. But she knew better than to say anything.

While the wife was hoping the glue smear was on the outside, where it could be cleaned, in another Baylor Lake home, a wife was nagging her husband about the centering of The Bicycle painting. Up. No, up on the left. Well that's too much. God damn it, move, just move, I swear to God, no, no, I said move. I'll do it.

While the husband was nursing a gin and tonic and the wife was cursing her worthless husband and blaming the nail's placement for her inability to get the frame centered, in a family room in a home in Kimble, Louisiana, David McMahon and his wife Honey were admiring their framed and mounted 'Raggedy Andy's Friend.' It was a truly bizarre painting; a crumpled Raggedy Andy doll laying on the floor while a woman's foot, wearing high heeled pumps carelessly treads on the doll, the stiletto heel driving into the doll's stitched smile.

"Um, remind me again, why did we like this?" Honey teased her husband.

"Because we could afford it," David smiled, looping his arm around Honey's thick middle.

"It's weird," Honey declared.

"In other words? It fits right in," David agreed.

"Go get the kids; spaghetti's just about ready," Honey smiled and craned up for a kiss.

That night, David woke up, needing to pee. Carefully he disentangled himself from Honey's embrace. But rather than take four steps from bed to bathroom, David decided to go downstairs to use the small half-bath. He paused in front of the painting for a long moment.

'Do not let Farley or DJ go around Heather's new boyfriend,; Raggedy Andy said.

"Wait, what?" David gasped, staring at the bizarre painting.

'"Do not leave Farley or DJ alone with Andre; he will molest them," Raggedy Andy said, button eyes boring into David's eyes.

"I'll kill him he lays a finger on any of my kids," David snarled.

Marching upstairs, David stormed into the bedroom and saw himself sleeping with his beautiful chubby red headed wife. He smiled, seeing the peaceful look on the woman's face. He could feel himself being drawn into his body again.

"Damn it; forgot to pee," David said, waking up.

While David disentangled himself from his wife, the Baylor Lake wife found herself standing in front of The Bicycle painting. She scowled; the painting had shifted and was again off-center. Her damned lazy husband couldn't do anything right.

'You're the one can't do nothing right,' the grizzled looking man snarled hatefully.

"What?" the wife demanded.

'God damn, just beat him down and beat him down and beat him down,' the scruffy looking man spat.

"If I didn't, he'd just sit around fucking with that stupid piece of shit computer thingie he bought; I told him not to buy that but did he listen?" the wife snarled hatefully.

'Know what? How'd you like it? Someone always beating you down?' the man said, snapping the left handlebar from the bicycle's frame.

"Aieegh! I, God, help me!" the wife screamed as the scruffy man did start beating her without mercy on her face and hands and arms and shoulders with the broken piece of handlebar.

'Like it? It feel good?' the man screamed, flailing at her as she tryied to protect herself.

"I'm sorry!" the wife screamed and the beating stopped.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she sobbed, returning to her bedroom.

Her head throbbed from the pain, her arms and hands ached from where the handlebar had struck her as she tried to protect her face. Her face was her best feature; men had always told her how pretty she was. She walked past the bedroom her husband slept in. She had made him leave their bedroom; she claimed his snoring was horrendous. And, yes, he was snoring. The deep rumbles of a peacefully sleeping man.

Entering her own bedroom, she was shocked to hear a racket like a chainsaw in need of a tune up. She saw herself sleeping, face marred by wrinkles as she snored heavily.

"That, that's not me; I'm pretty. And, I don't snore," she denied as she felt herself being pulled into her body.

The husband found himself looking at the painting. He shook his head; she'd said it was centered; he could easily see that it was not. And, it tilted, leaning slightly to the left.

'I've got only one wheel; I ain't going nowhere,' the scruffy old man said.

"I know the feeling," the husband tiredly agreed. "Pedal and pedal and pedal and nothing ever happens."

'Your 'Stack It Racket' is a great program,' the old man said.

"I don't know about that," the husband said.

'Kids will love it; it'll teach young kids how to do 'drag and drop' and double clicking and right clicking,' the man encouraged. 'And here's the kicker. Adults will love it too; it'll let them create castles and farms and skyscrapers; it'll let their inner kid play.'

"Oh yeah? Yeah, I can see that," the husband smiled.

'And your 'Ana-Game' will be a hot phone app. Yes, kids will love playing it, it'll teach them words. And adults will love Level II with harder anagrams and harder clues,' the old man encouraged. "Develop a third level; they have to hit a hundred points to graduate out of Level one, five hundred points to graduate to Level three."

"Yeah, but it's stupid; my wife says it's just a waste of time," the husband said sadly.

'No. What's a waste of time is sitting here, going nowhere,' the man stated. 'Believe in yourself. Believe man, believe.'

Returning to his bedroom, the husband smirked. Yes, he snored, but he could hear his wife's snoring had reached astronomical levels. He felt himself being drawn into his body again.

As the man felt himself being pulled into his body again, William Carter awoke and sleepily made his way to the formal living room. The room was pitch black; there were no windows in this particular room. Inexplicably, the Teddy painting was illuminated, as if lighted from behind. William stared at the pained expression in the little girl's eyes and smiled.

Suddenly, William found himself being thrown to the floor. He gasped out, trying to catch his breath. He heard drunken giggles. Unseen hands held his arms down above his head. Something was tugging at his shorts, pulling them down and off of his thrashing legs.

"Aieegh! No! No!" William screamed out as a burning, searing pain was felt at his crotch.

An unseen hand clamped down over his mouth and his nose. William struggled, sure he would suffocate. The burning, throbbing pain continued ripping at his crotch.

His left hand was suddenly freed and he clawed out at the unseen attacker. A blow to his face bounced his head off of the hard floor. He sobbed as the pain continued and continued and continued.

William came to, lying on the hard, cold floor. Whimpering and asking himself 'why' he made his way to his bedroom. There, he saw himself sleeping, face drawn tight as he suffered a bad dream. William felt himself being pulled into his body.

While William tried to reassure himself, it had only been a dream, a bad dream, a husband found himself looking at the 'Milk' painting. He nodded in satisfaction; that little fruity pansy had wanted two hundred and ninety five dollars to frame and mount the painting but he had done it himself and...

Shards of broken glass filled his mouth and his throat. The husband gulped; the worst thing he could have done. Shards of glass tore at his esophagus, ripping and tearing all the way down to his stomach.

"Look! Open your damned eyes you fool," the hand had put down the carton of milk and was pointing directly at him.

"What?" the husband choked out, blood spraying from his cut lips and gouged tongue.

"The frame's the wrong color, the matting is not only not centered, it does not match the painting, and there's a smudge of glue on the glass. It is just like everything else you do. It is sloppy and amateurish and half-ass," the hand waggled the pointing finger accusingly.

"Oh. Oh yeah," the man said, seeing the defects now.

"And let's see what else you've managed to screw up. That tune up you did on your wife's car? The brick garden she wanted? The wobbly table?" The hand continued.

"Hey now, that table, it doesn't wobble anymore," the husband defended, wiping at the blood dripping from his cut lips and tongue.

"Instead of shoring up the slightly short leg, you cut the other three down," the hand scoffed. "Great job there. Now, people have to wedge themselves under the table. But, it's okay; no one ever visits anymore anyway. Why? Because your arrogant attitude, your know-it-all always right never wrong attitude has driven everyone away."

"I, I," the husband stammered as the glass shards ripped and tore at his belly.

""Your wife. Your poor wife," the hand said, picking up the carton of milk again. "Want some more?"

"No. I, I've had enough," the man said, hanging his head even as stabbing pains ripped at his insides.

Walking to their bedroom, he saw himself, really saw himself. The former football player was now a fat, misshapen bloated fool. He looked at his wife, sleeping next to him, face pinched and drawn. The former prom queen no longer bore the happy-go-lucky expression on her face.

He felt himself being pulled into his body, his horrible, out of shape body. He fought against the pull for just a moment as he softly touched the beautiful, wonderful face of his bride.

"Jessie, I, I'm sorry," he whispered as the pull was too great to resist and he was again in his old, fat body. "I am so sorry, Sweetheart."

Jessie stood in front of the painting. She had been so thrilled when she'd received the tickets to the exhibit; a former classmate had originally been given the tickets but suddenly couldn't go. So, the friend had given the highly sought after tickets to her. Then when her husband agreed to bid on this painting, this bold, jarring, thought-provoking painting, well, you could have knocked her down with a feather.

"Here, drink from the carton; the glass is unsafe," the hand said, holding the carton out for her.

"Thank you," Jessie said, suddenly parched.

The cold, refreshing milk coursed down her throat. Jessie smiled and took another sip.

"You know, my momma? Oh! She would have been so mad, seeing me drink from the carton," Jessie admitted, giggling naughtily.

"And your mother would have thrown this glass away and fetched a good glass," the hand said. "Your mother would have told your husband the brick garden was not what you wanted. You wanted a small square, just something to plant some beautiful flowers in. Instead, he built you a monstrosity you can't even use."

"It's just easier to go along," Jessie mumbled.

"Have some more milk," the hand suggested. "Tell me about the table."

"God, just, God," Jessie grumbled. "Cap came off the left leg. And instead of getting another cap, the damned fool just cut the caps off the other three legs."

"And..." the hand prompted. "Have some more milk."

The cold milk was wonderful, soothing. Jessie tried to see if it was whole milk, skim milk, or maybe low-fat or... But the carton just said 'Milk.'

"It's milk. It's just milk," the hand agreed.

"And, it's just easier to acquiesce," Jessie mumbled.

"When we say 'no' to the little things, it makes it too difficult to say 'yes' to the big things," the hand softly said. "May I have my milk back now?"

"No!" Jessie giggled and took another sip.

"That's my girl," the hand encouraged.

Thirst quenched, Jessie did hand the carton of milk to the hand. She then sauntered to the bedroom. She felt a little spring in her step. Looking down at her body, lying next to her husband, she paused.

For a long moment, Jessie wondered, did she really want to be back in her body? She felt a hand at her back, a hand that gave her a gentle push and she was again in her body.

While Jessie slept an easy, dreamless sleep, in a trailer in Benhurst, Colorado, Cindy Shiles found sleep wouldn't come. She decided a glass of Iron Barrel Chocolate flavored Whiskey would do the trick and lumbered her three hundred and forty two pounds off of the wobbly bed. The floorboards groaned under her bulk and she cursed her parents for her genetics.

In the living room, she wobbled past the flimsy bookshelf that housed her college textbooks. One day, one day she would return to Myndee University, and would actually apply herself to her studies, instead of trying to have a social life. As she lumbered past, the framed drawing toppled over.

Cindy had absolutely hated, loathed Kitty Truehart when they'd been paired up to be roommates. The girl was stunningly beautiful with perfect blonde hair and luminescent blue eyes and a physique Cindy would have killed to have. And her syrupy sweet voice and her sickeningly sweet personality...

Then, Kitty had a boyfriend. Kitty's boyfriend was the type of man Cindy thought of when she pleasured herself. Tall, handsome, well-built, a man's man. And no matter how much Cindy denigrated Lowell Truesdale, Kitty seemed determined to be with him.

"Fucking bitch," Cindy snarled, righting the small self-portrait Kitty Truehart had sent to her.

The self-portrait was not of an adult Kitty Truehart, but of a small blonde child. Cindy had laughed a delighted laugh when she'd seen that the portrait had been mailed to her from some Psychiatric Hospital in Louisiana.

"Guess little Miss Perfect ain't so fucking perfect, huh?" Cindy had guffawed, looking at the framed drawing.

Righting the portrait, Cindy gasped. The small, hopeful face of the child Kitty Truehart was not inside of the frame. Instead, there was a drawing of a torn foil packet for a condom and a used condom, semen dribbling, puddling from the torn tip.

That smug little bitch had a date, had plans to spend the weekend with her boyfriend, her loving, supportive boyfriend. Cindy had gifted Kitty some condoms and had laughed at the hot blush on Kitty's face. Of course, Cindy did not tell Kitty that she'd taken a safety pin to each of the condoms, piercing two or three holes into each condom.

Whatever had happened on that date, Kitty had never returned to their dorm room. A few times, that handsome Lowell had asked Cindy if she knew anything about Kitty. Rather than asking Cindy out on a date, the man was just worried about the bitch, the beautiful blonde bitch Kitty.

Suddenly, Cindy felt sick to her stomach as a bout of morning sickness gripped her. Unable to move, Cindy vomited heartily onto herself. Her already distended belly slowly expanded and she felt bloated, bloated and severely constipated and miserable. Her breasts were extremely sore; her nipples felt like someone had vigorously rubbed sandpaper across them. Her belly grew grotesquely large.