That night, I woke up from a horrid nightmare.
The painting of the man, vividly moving through my mind,
Coming closer and closer
Then
Darkness.
Sweating and heaving air, I opened my eyes wide in fear. I would not't be able to return to my sleep, even if I could bear any more dreams such as them. Once again, I decided to escape the warmth of the tent and covers, and emerge into the moonlight.
It was so quiet, I found. Before, every little sound seemed to make me twitch, in wonder if I had been caught. Now that I had no intention of escaping, or at least not yet, the stillness set in and was almost calming. As I looked around I saw someone sitting in a tent, awake and by candlelight, seemed to be doing something.
As I approached the tent further, I could peer slightly in the slit of light from the flaps. It was Calsipher. He was sitting down on the floor, legs folded, intently focusing on painting. It was peculiar because I had not known Calsipher to be the type to paint. In fact, most of the men I'd known never had taken an interest. If they had, they certainly had never succumbed to it.
No. It was peculiar because of many reasons. For one, it was the middle of the night. He was a gypsy. Even the expression on his face seemed to be very serious. Very daunting. His hand was trembling for some reason, and it seemed because his emotions took the best of him. It was all of these reasons and more. The one, however, that stuck out in my mind was of the particular subject he cared to paint.
It was the man, from my nightmare!
I gasped as I saw the image reappear, of all places, and just after I had left the tent. All of my attempt to avoid it was lost.
Calsipher's hand ceased trembling and he looked behind him, looking directly at me, who was just outside of the tent. Sweat formed in my palm and I looked down realizing I was clinging onto the flaps.
No use to turn back now.
I walked into the tent carefully, "I…" but he stopped me.
"You're Raina," he mono-toned. His voice was sort of off in a distance. He swallowed and I could tell that he was holding back whatever had bothered him so much.
"Forgive me," I mumbled and started turning out, "I shouldn't't have interupted you." I added to myself, "It's just his painting."
"What about my painting?" he asked. His voice was still emotionless, stealthily hiding what he was feeling underneath. I could feel it.
"Um," I started.
How much could I tell him? He would probably think me insane, thinking such things, that it might be of relation to my dreams. "It just reminds me of how I used to paint all the time where I was living before."
Calsipher seemed satisfied with the lie. "Oh," then he added, seemingly softening a bit, "I guess you can join me if you should like to." Then he turned back to his work, grimacing at it before continuing his painting.
What could I have done? It wans't as if I could just go back to my tent and forget all of this now could I?
Yes, indeed I slowly walked into the tent, picked up a mural, and began to paint, to express, to remember in certain ways, but all the more, to forget.