Phobia

1. An Artistic Masterpiece

Rosaline's brown eyes shimmered with joy as she looked at the glorious scene in front of her. A bright beam of sunlight shed light on towering white peaks. The beauty of the mountains stole her breath as she gazed with wonder. Any word she said, any thought she had was glorified by the magnificent view.

Alas, it was time to head back. She had depart for the bustling streets of the city the next day. Oh, the city life was so monotonous and drab. The mountains seemed to be shrouded in an air of mystery, and adventure seemed to be waiting at every turn. Rosaline felt a deep sense of regret to leave the heavenly mountains behind. She might have been elated to leave, if she knew that hidden eyes watched her every movement in the quaint town.

The streets were dark as she made her way back to the place she was staying at. A chill went down her spine as she heard footsteps behind her. Her steps quickened, and the footsteps behind quickened too. She couldn't turn around to save precious time; her sight never felt more useless. Her thoughts ran haywire as she imagined the worst. Not knowing the threat made it more terrifying. Imagination is a gift as well as a curse. Being unable to tolerate the deadly suspense, Rosaline turned back. There was no one.

Alarmed, she ran to her destination. Hidden from her, two eyes watched from the bushes as she sighed in relief on reaching the doorstep of her humble cottage.

The next day, Rosaline stepped out, suitcase in hand. Her encounter with the phantom the previous night had made her glad to leave the place. Her chocolate brown tresses glinted like gold under the sunlight as they cascaded down her back. She walked to the airport for her departure slowly, dragging the suitcase rhythmically behind her on the cemented road. Then, she heard it again. The footsteps. She hurriedly increased her speed, but the suitcase weighed her down. This time too she turned around, but this time, there was no need to hide.

She saw me.

Before her sweet lips could utter any melodious screams for help, I silenced her.

Later in the evening, I looked at Rosaline's ethereal face buried on the snowy peaks she was admiring. Ah, she looked so beautiful and sweet, lying in the cold ground, ready to be marveled at by yet another picture of innocence. The satisfaction was immense. I was an artist, and she was my masterpiece. Sometimes, one doesn't know when they're admiring the place of their own burial.

The canvas where they'll be painted. In red.