Chapter 43 #2
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.
The real me.
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.
Bound them 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 just know that 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 of him . 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 ...
Waiting ...
But he just stands there with a puckered brow, peering out through wide eyes that look like crystals. Just stands there with outstretched arms and empty hands.
He doesn’t step off the painting like part of me had hoped he would. He doesn’t blink or breathe or smile.
He doesn’t tell me why I can’t let him go.
But how could he? I gave him rocks for eyes. Rocks for his ears and his mouth and his hands.
I pieced him together with mortar.
Not real.
A weight lands in my stomach, so heavy I stumble back.
My vision of him blurs and I blink at the haze, feeling a wetness slide down my cheeks. The sensation releases a plug pitted deep inside my heart, and suddenly my lungs are heaving, breath coming in hard, fast gasps.
My back collides with the wall, spine grating down stone until I’m sitting on the ground, knees caught against my ribs.
I look up into his eyes, map the freckles on his face, examine the painting like the open wound it is ... and I let myself unravel. Let my unbridled emotions dismantle me in a way that feels hopelessly insignificant. Because he’s in pieces.
I’m not.
And all the while he stares ... and stares ... and stares.
Unblinking. Unseeing. Yet I’ve never felt so seen .
I sit for what feels like hours, leaking my own self-hatred while I rock back and forth, wishing someone would wrap me in their arms and cuddle me.
The back of my neck tingles.
My chest stops heaving, face smoothing, as if somebody bunged the spill of my emotions.
I sense an overwhelming presence, like there’s suddenly less air for me to breathe. Less space for me to move.
So acutely aware of the blackness that seems to push against my side, I glide my gaze to the right and peer into the void ...
I’m not alone.
Someone ... some thing is watching from the shadows. I can feel their keen attention sliding over my skin like the sharp tip of a blade.
“Wh-who is it?” I rasp, only confirming my suspicions when rather than bounce back at me like my words usually do down here, they’re absorbed . As if something devoured them before they had the chance to echo.
I swallow, feeling every sense sharpen as I lower my hands to the floor and roll forward, perched on all fours while I reach for my bag.
Something rumbles—the sound deep and heavy, like a mountain’s growl—and I freeze, unable to breathe or speak or blink, every muscle knotting with a wild fear I’ve never felt before.
All I want to do is move . To scream and run and leave my bag and never look back.
But my instincts have other ideas.
They want me to keep my chin high, stare pinned to the dark. They want me to back away, showing as little fear as possible.
Although it makes no sense to me, for once in my life, I listen.
Slowly—so damn slowly—I begin to move again, keeping my eyes speared into the body of darkness while I grab my bag. Another sawing rumble rolls through the gloom, threatening to maul my composure into messy ribbons.
I snatch the torch and leap to my feet, lifting my chin and walking backward down the hall—every blind, unhurried step feeling like a feat in its own.
I don’t dare blow out the other torches as I go, knowing that if I do, I won’t be putting any space between myself and whatever it is that’s hunting me.
Let them burn out. Let them become nothing but charcoal nubs unable to illuminate my loss. A sheath of black to forever keep this graveyard safe—a nicety I wish Rhordyn had given me.
Committed to his lies rather than this painful in-between.
I stumble into the comforting light of the common hallway and slam the door shut, scurrying backward in a burst of frightened energy.
My back collides with stone and I drop to the ground, drop the torch, legs trapped against my chest to quell the rising tremors paying tribute to the frantic beat of my heart.
Eventually those torches will blow out, and then this place will no longer belong to me ...
Perhaps that thought should lighten my shoulders.
It doesn’t.