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Empty canvas.
Indecisive paint.
Unstable paintbrush.
What to start? Where to start? How to start? Fuck. I hate being an artist.
Mom must be screaming again. I can't hear much.
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Paint a portrait. Portrait of a girl. Portrait of you, smiling. Happy. Put sunflowers in them. Put daisies. Put the moon.
There's someone in the window.
Did you see that?
Stand up and lock the doors, better safe than sorry. Always.
There's someone in the window.
Someone's watching.
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Drop your paintbrush. Lock the doors. You're in fucking trouble.
HURRY.
HURRY.
HURRY.
The lights start blinkering. There are footsteps inside the room—but they're not yours.
The lights are out.
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RUN.
KEEP ON RUNNING.
Go to the rooftop. Rooftop. You're safe there. No one knows how to get there but you.
Cover your ears and don't touch anything.
The lights are back.
But something doesn't feel right.
The canvas.
It's dirty.
It's ruined.
Clawed by a monster. No—a knife. There's a knife on the floor.
The portrait is ruined now. Gone. The eyes are smudged, ruined by red paint. It's bleeding down the floor.
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There's something else written on it.
It read:
"Took your painting. You soon."
