Disclaimer: If I owned Heroes, Isaac would still be alive, wouldn't he?;3
A/N: I did have to fiddle with this a bit to make what I wanted to write work. I understand the technicalities of Isaac's power and that he COULD simply stop with the drugs wehenver he wanted to paint something that doesn't tell the future, but let's pretend he's uber addicted at this point?:/ Pfft. It's just a silly writing, mmk?
Over the past few weeks, I've completely buried myself in paintings. Paintings of explosions and death and intimidating figures shrouded in shadow. I must admit that depressing images such as these have sold far more easily than anything I could have ever painted previous to this situation, but I'm truly going insane. Never before have I wanted to paint a boring landscape so badly.
But lately, I've had little control over what my mind chooses to paint. It could be the drugs, or it could be subconscious. All of this might just go away if only I could quit the drugs. But I've tried that before and I've failed miserably. There's just no way. No amount of rehab will ever cure me of this addiction.
But why? I never had this problem before. Why can't I control what I want to put onto the canvas?
So, now I stand in front of a blank white canvas, brush in hand.
"Just concentrate on what you're painting…," I tell myself, my heart and fingers aching to paint something dull and unexciting for once. Slowly, hesitantly, I dip my brush into the paint and onto the canvas. "This is good…", I allow myself to admit as I begin to shape the curves and lines of a forest landscape. And then…I can remember nothing. I sink into a foggy-eyed trance, and my mind goes blank.
I'm not sure how long it took before I came to, but I was still standing rigidly in front of the easel when my eyes cleared. I glance around cautiously. The only differences I see are that my hands are now empty--the palette and brush lay on the ground at my feet--and the canvas is fully painted. I sigh loudly, running my hand over the now dry mess of reds, oranges and blacks. My intended subject had, yet again, been completely transfigured. Not a speck of green or blue to be found--just the same loud mixture of colours as always, arranged in the usual vision of chaos.
"Trees," I whisper miserably, crouching onto the ground and burying my head into my hands. "All I wanted to paint was trees."