Deathscape

Her hand jerked, leaving an angry slash in the middle of the canvas. A headache drummed to life in the back of her skull. It’s not going to happen today. She ignored the shiver that skipped down her spine. This is a normal day. I’m painting a normal composition. But it was too late. It was happening already. She squeezed her eyes shut against the images flooding her brain, but no resistance would help now. She couldn’t escape.

She drew the main outline, keeping her fingers on the ferrule—the metal piece that clamped the bristles to the handle—and created a nose, mouth, and eyelids. For a moment, she wondered what color his eyes might be, then shoved aside the macabre thought. He had a strong, square jaw, his hair pushed back, looking sticky from the dirt that had been thrown directly onto his face.

She could drive down Hadley Road until she reached the right spot, then walk in. Would have to drive by the reservoir. She didn’t drive that road anymore. But even if she could, she wasn’t going to chase some imaginary dead man, or almost dead man, around the countryside.

Can I stay?” The question broke Ashley Price’s heart as she crouched in her messy foyer with her daughter in her arms. She clutched her five-year-old tighter as skinny little arms wrapped around her neck. “Very soon, okay?” Maddie—pink coat, pink boots, pink hat, pink gloves—pulled back and put on her poor-lost-puppy look. “Mo-om, you always say that. I’ll be good. I’ll be quiet when you paint. You won’t even know I’m here.

Her father didn’t know the half of her problems. Nobody did. Nobody ever would. She couldn’t let anyone find out just how crazy she was, the secret she kept. She would fight her way out of that dark hole somehow. She had to, or it would swallow her for good.

Of all the shades of red, she hated the wet, sticky brightness of crimson the most.

I get it. Artists are introverts. If you were out there socializing all the time, you wouldn’t have time to contemplate and create. I have artists who are social butterflies. I’m not making a lot of money off them.” She paused.

Tomorrow, said the voice of fear in her head. It always said, tomorrow, whether it talked about going to the grocery store or starting a new painting. Tomorrow you'll be brave, fear whispered. Tomorrow you'll be normal. Just give me today. That was how fear stole whole lives away.