They’re screams.
Some have angular marks drawn on their foreheads, some don’t. Some are closer, some are standing farther away, their features less defined as if my tiny, two-year-old memory was too hazy for my subconscious to paint a clear picture.
I keep walking, drifting past haunting stare after haunting stare, looking past the ghosts I didn’t intend to paint, trying to focus on the small pictures I did.
Failing.
They’re watching me; ghostly perusals scalding my skin and refusing to let me ignore them.
The first time I noticed one staring out at me from the wall, lording over me with eyes that seemed to follow my movements, I fell over. Ran from here so fast I forgot my bag and had to return later when I’d managed to compose myself.
That night, I saw the same man in my nightmares ... in pieces.
Saw him get feasted on by the same three beasts that haunt me every time I close my eyes.
I spent two months painting another section only to realize the little stones were all building blocks to yet another person staring out at me. Somebody else I’d seen burned bits of while I’d slept.
Somebody else who lost their life that day.
I realized I was painting a grave. Fixing faces of the dead down here in the dark where they could exist in a different way—an abstract eulogy that hurts to look at. Especially now. Because at the very end of this mural, on the verge of that hungry darkness, is the little boy who looks like me.
Therealme.
And this whisper weighing down my knapsack ... it’s his final piece. I know it is, even though it’s not what I intended to paint.
It took him years to show up in the overriding picture, as though I’d hidden him deeper than the rest.
That thought feels dangerous.
I come to the edge of the light and drop to my knees, digging through my bag. I bypass the mouse-filled jar and pull out another heavy with freshly mixed mortar. My palate knife comes next, then finally the stone wrapped in cheesecloth.
No chisel. I won’t be decorating any more pieces.
This story ... it’s over. Today, I place the final full stop.
I unwrap the layers of material and look upon my work.
On this fist-sized stone, I painted a pair of hands much the same as Rhordyn’s sketch; soft and relaxed, at ease in their restful state despite the thorny vine I wrapped around them.
Boundthem with.
Those vicious thorns dig deep, spilling trails of red—such a stark contrast to the blue flowers sprouting from the vine. Feeding off the blood.
I use my palette knife to clear out the old mortar, then scoop a glob of fresh stuff from the jar, my hand unsteady as I spread it around before pressing the whisper into place.
I keep it hidden behind the flat of my palm, drawing deep breaths, trying to convince my heart to stop beating me up from the inside.
Because I know ... I justknowthat although my wakeful state has painted a pair of hands wrapped in a thorny vine, my subconscious has somehow woven it into the final piece ofhim. That it has put him back together again—no longer in bits scattered throughout my nightmares.
I may not jump into that abyss in my dreams, but this ...I’ve done this. Pulled crumbs of shadow from that chasm and dripped them from my fingertips, even if it wasn’t intentional.
I’ve done this.
The thought gives me courage to let my hand drop, though it swiftly snaps up to shield my heart.
The little boy appears to lift off the wall, as though he might push free from the stones and bridge the gap between us.
I hold my breath, waiting ...
