Scarlet Eyes and Raven Dies

page twenty two

A macabre scene, shattered veins, speckled blood-spots, dull and open eyes. An image like no other poisoned Vincent still.
Peter; his limp body dangled from a tree. His neck sore, a rope clutched it tight. Now there he hung, his head rested on his right shoulder. His eyes open and dull.
Peters body exposed with knife slashes and bruises.
How long had Peter been like this for?
Vincent let out a blood hurdling scream. A deafening noise that woke up all of London. A noise someone could hear in the avenues of Boston. Vincent ran to Peters naked body, his fingers ran down his cut chest and tears streamed down the florid cheek of Vincent's. He thought these tears were for eternity, his hurt always insurmountable, his grief forever sorrowful. This calamity, something so broken and forever fixed in history. Vincent wasn't an evil person, but the man who's eyes painted pictures with brushes was the rogue.
The man they swindled, the man's deceived eyes.
Had he known nothing, he knew all.
His shifting eyes between Peter and Vincent were enough to make a stab.
Vincent should've known.
The men shouldn't have been as naïve to think of a painter as a philosopher.
To think someone would paint two men with daggers in their back.
They were always on the run, and always should have been.