Screams echo through his memory…
Not memories of what has happened, but echoes, shadows of what will…
It seems to form around in his mind's eye, twist and splinter and come together in one resounding, resolute image… but he still can't form, until he puts brush to canvas, until he creates what some call art… but what he calls the truth.
In his mind, he sees her, dead, a bullet in her chest, dark red spreading across light blue. He sees her being held by a man, not him, and he knows she is gone, but he doesn't believe it. He can't allow himself to.
He sees her in the street, beneath a crimson umbrella, as heavy rain beats down around her, and he sees a man lean towards her, he sees them kiss… his heart breaks, because he knows who they are, and that they are in love…
He sees her stand in the doorway, a case in hand, a smile spreading across her lips…
In the haze created by the heroin coursing through his system, he forgets some of it. But he remembers enough.
He splashes yellow on the canvas before him, and he uses his brush to carve out an image, as hundreds of thousands had before; but this was the image of the future.
He forms an image of a woman, of the woman, standing in a doorway. He adds black, darkening the image, and further defines the shape of her legs, the knee-high boots, and adds lines of white, the reflection of light in the leather. He adds the shape of her neck, and paints swirls above her head, the rampant curls of her gorgeous hair.
He paints her lips, her beautiful, full lips, but before he knows it, they're gone, shrouded in painted shadow.
In less than an hour, it is done; and so is he.
He drops to his knees, and the images of the future slip into the mists of his drug-addled brain. A second later, there was nothing left, but his own self-loathing.
He lies on the cold concrete floor, splattered in paint, staring up at the image of the woman now permanently etched on canvas, stuck there for all of time, staring down at him…
He crawls to the nearest bench, and takes another hit.
He sees, this time, images of fire and burning; a train derailed, a bus aflame. This time, he remembers both.
He paints the bus first; a red one, its windows shattered, fire pouring upwards in columns, thick smoke towering overhead…
He finishes with the numbers. The bus' ID numbers…
A second later, he is done, again covered in paint. He spins to the left, to find a blank canvas looking at him. The mists shift, and imprint themselves on the canvas. Once again, he puts brush to material and he creates…
First, he writes six words across the blank yellow material.
When he is done, there is a ruined carriage, and a broken train, and flames everywhere.
The words are gone.
But he can still see the words. "Save the cheerleader…" he mutters, "save the world."
He falls unconscious, the heroin wearing off.
When he wakes up, he can't remember it. But he still knows, in the back of his mind, that they are important…
Save the cheerleader, save the world…
