Canvas after canvas fills every inch of wall space, pictures full of color and celebrating life while others depict death and a morbid curiosity. The latter are my favorite.
Blacks and reds and the emotion of grief reach across the finished pieces, and I finger one in particular of a man in shadow. No face can be seen and he’s tall, his build muscular as his exposed torso is the focal point.
Not the blood dripping from his hand.
Not the small body on the ground or the other three strewn about in different sections of the dilapidated road where he stands staring at the destruction left behind.
I want this one.
I know how to get it.
“I’ll see you soon.”
2
Gabriella
“G
oodbye for now, pretty girl.”
I awake with a start.
Chest heaving. Palms sweaty. With this all-consuming feeling—fear—gripping me in its stinging bonds while refusing to let go.
Because all I see is red. Red everywhere.
Everything.
It’s all one shade, and yet depending on the lighting, the tone changes its hue to an eerie reminiscence of blood. This blasphemous and disturbing tint that slides down each corner and object I see, destroying any hint of purity within the four walls my mind is trapped within—where breathing is a struggle and my chest aches from the terrifying memory that feels real.
“Pretty girl.”
Inside that room—the same cursed room—and the voice that I’ve dreamed of every night for the past year as if my mind refuses to escape its dreariness while demanding that I remember each detail vividly. To catalog the representation of death. To embrace its mockery of my sanity.
And I do. Even while lying in bed, fully awake, I’m held inside my mind in an inescapable trap.
With each shaky inhale, I still see the antique furniture with intricate carvings in a black mahogany wood that shouldn’t be seen unless under direct sunlight, and yet, in the dead of night as I visit this room, the symbols glare at me. They dare me to ignore the circular carvings with a hidden meaning that I’ve yet to uncover.
You’re awake. Focus, Gabriella. And yet, I can’t.
No matter what books I look into while awake. No matter what internet searches I perform, dating back to a time where each house held a crest that symbolized their status, I fail.
No amount of searching or digging provides answers to the questions destroying my mind like a horror-filled movie reel. No matter the days lost behind a screen or sitting cross-legged between shelves in the back corner of a library, stacks of books burying me within their information; I’ve done it all, but still come up blank.
“Pretty girl.”
Taking in another deep breath, I focus on the rise and fall of my chest while ignoring the male voice. I’m begging my lungs to cooperate and my mind to fight this suffocating hold those words have on me when spoken by the rich and gravelly tone. In and out. Slowly, Gabriella. However, my body feels as though a heavy weight sits atop my chest, slowly suffocating me.
I’m scared, but curious. Idiotically so.
“I am safe.” Christ, those three words are hard to say. Each one tastes of lies, and it’s a feeling I’m unable to shake.
Glancing at my bedside alarm, I grimace at the glaring numbers blaring across its screen: 3:15 a.m. Tonight I slept longer than the last five days, but there’s no relief for my tired form.
Months reliving this same dream.
Months fighting to shake off this gripping unease that makes no sense, and yet, I know my response holds merit. Something is wrong.
Another deep breath. Another twitch of my fingers as a soft breeze infiltrates the room, and I’m almost grateful for the distraction. Almost. Because next to the flowy white curtains moving over my half-opened window is a painting I’ve come to loathe even though I’m its creator.
However, today it snaps me back to the present with an invisible snap so hard I gasp.
It’s across the bed from me. The first thing I see each day when I open my eyes.
With each stroke of my brush, I added every last detail down to the shade of red split in half with a contrast portraying day and night. Moreover, the opulent decor is full of teasing mockery that pulls me in.
I study it each day after waking up. Cling to this obsession.
Because that’s what this is.
An obsession. A need. A compulsion I can’t control.
“Why are you haunting me?” No answer, not that I expect one. Instead, I let my eyes skim across the painting, and I do my customary intake of items, placements, and lastly the haunting shade. Yet this time, I don’t finish as I pause on a white piece of paper taped to the right bottom corner.
It’s small and folded, and my anxiety rises with its presence. The choppy breaths I’ve fought hard to calm are now a choking sound as air fails to enter my airways and a seductive scent makes its presence known.
