Scarlet Eyes and Raven Dies

page twenty one

Vincent had walked far enough to where the painter slept. He slept in disheveled clothing in a dilapidated dwelling. His canvases scattered throughout his walls. His open door with chipped blue paint. The painter was sleeping glum with a paintbrush in his hand. He snored, and Vincent could only imagine the painter dreamt of picturesque views of lakes and lunettes. His dwelling was falling apart; a single incandescent lightbulb hung from the ceiling. The painter slept on sandbags facing his half-finished paintings of birds with vinous underparts.
Vincent turned away and kept walking, he heaved himself to the forest where Peter and him escaped their home-town. Vincent looked back at the silent city, even though he felt like his tears were knives, he let one out.
Once his fixated gaze on the city became blurry with welling tears, he faced the forest again. Vincent was hesitant as he took his steps into the woodland.
With every dead leaf crunch beneath his boot the wind became thicker.
Vincent's spine shivered of the cool breeze, his foot ached.
Walking through the trees, his face had become more flush as the wind pattered.
There was barley any light besides the moon.
Vincent stopped.