War, Sacrifice, And Oil Paints.

The soldier picked up the gun, stepped back, and fired three more bullets between the eyes of the man who had killed his best friend. Beyond him, the battle still raged, with men and women alike fighting to the death. Bodies littered the battlefield, like flowers in a meadow, a gory, death-filled meadow. Weapons were scattered through the whole traumatizing sight, and the living were snatching them up and making use of them until they were cut down as well. However, looking at the scene, there was one important factor missing. There was not any blood. But as a giant, upside down tree with soft branches appeared in the image, covered in the missing blood, all made sense; it was a paintbrush, full with red paint, sweeping over the entire area...

...Which added the missing element to the painting. With a sigh, the artist sat back, surveying the work that he had just finished. It was a terrible sight, now full of blood, death, and the bodies of murdered people. The artist shook his head with dismay. The pictures never quite turned out the way he wanted, they were always worse when he put them on the canvas. But, seeing as this was the only way he could get the terrifying moments out of his head, it was better than nothing.

The artist had been in World War I, where he had lost his best friend, his little brother, and his sanity. When he had arrived home back in New York City, his family had been unable to accept that he was a changed man. The artist couldn't stand to be around people who didn't understand him. He had no longer fit in with society in America, so he boarded a ship illegally, and came to France, where he lived a quiet life in a small apartment with a faint view of the Eiffel Tower, painting horror scenes from the war he had partaken in.

Coming back to himself, the artist stood and stretched; looking around the tiny apartment he lived in, and then suddenly sat back down in shock. The room was full to the bursting point of the horrible paintings. He would never be able to empty the space! He would be forever trapped, looking at his past in canvas and oil paints. Oh, god, if only he could bring himself to destroy even one!

"You wish to be rid of the past?" A creepy, timeless voice echoed through the apartment, startling the artist. The voice repeated over and over again exactly what the man wanted, following him through every room. As the artist passed through each space, he caught a glimpse of his wild expression and his long, dirty hair. He thought he looked hilarious, running from nothing, but those thoughts came to an abrupt halt as the voice came again. The voice reverberated, making the artist tremble in fear at what may happen if he didn't answer, so he did.

"Who are you? What do you want? What did I do?" the man cried, panicked. "And how can I make it go away?"

Again came the voice, whispering through the air around the artist, and again, the artist got no direct answer.

"Go to the painting you just finished. You paint the past much worse than it could have been. You sincerely believe this is how it was. I am here to show you differently. Go now."

So the artist ran, straight to the painting, but he bolted so quickly that he was unable to stop when he arrived at the spot. He crashed into the canvas, but instead of feeling it tear beneath his weight, he kept falling. And falling. When he finally hit the ground, he felt the ground rumble, and smelt burning flesh, heard a cannon fire. He left his eyes shut and prayed, just prayed, that he wasn't back where he thought he was. He finally dared to open one eye, but the bright, hot sunlight forced him to close it again.

When he heard a man scream like he was being ripped apart, it was as if the artist was the one being tortured. He knew where he was.

He was back in the war, inside his paintings.