Eyes.
There were eyes in the dark.
Evil, glittering, gleaming, yellow eyes.
The air around them swirled, looped, practically danced, malice but in control.
How do you control it when you're angry, so angry, so hot you can't breathe and the world is rushing and you just want to hit, hit, hit, punch, shout, your arm is moving on it's own and you know you're doing this but you just can't stop and stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, wait – hit him, hit him again, don't stop he needs to come down come down, come down!
You wake up, and the world is a stretch of white. White canvas.
Canvas. He always had canvas. Whether it be his face or the wall or a real canvas, he always had canvas, ready to draw, paint, bring to life another picture.
He was gone. He didn't come down.
Why…. What is this canvas doing there, in front of you?
What is this brush in your hand, the tip black, black, so very black?
Black like the eyes.
A voice, telling you to just draw.
Draw what?
Paint what?
What is there to do, to be, to live for after He's gone?
The eyes.
Pretend you're him.
Easy enough, when you have his face.
What did his face look like, when he was painting?
Concentrated. Intent. Eyebrows slightly furrowed, eyes – no, don't think of eyes – chin slightly tipped to the left. Do that.
Purse your lips a little more, and…ah. It's a good painting face.
Pick up the brush again and let it touch the paper.
The paper. Loathe the paper.
It's not your paper, it's his paper.
What are you doing, trying to be like him?
You already are. Stop.
Stop.
Stopstopstop.
No more.
Don't try to look for him, look like him. Don't be him, don't paint like him.
The eyes. Paint the eyes.
He always saved the eyes for last – so paint them first.
Big, big, glowing, not usual and muted or perfect and brimming with life.
The brush fell onto the canvas – stroke, stroke, stroke, paint, dip the brush, get it over with.
Paint, paint, dip, paint, pause, look, paint, paint.
Hurry, hurry, be done with it.
A minute. Two, three, four, five – fifteen. Half an hour.
Not done yet.
Add the finishing touches.
Lines, more lines, more black, add more glow to the eyes, more POP!
There we go.
Eyes.
Watching him.
A reflection of his own.
But, inside.
Good, good.
Done.
He was done.
Done with it.
Done with them.
Eyes.
There were eyes in the dark.
There are eyes in the dark, watching him.
Waiting for his turn to fade to black.