No. Not for me. Too dull. This was not something I could paint, I am an artist. Instead, I am forced to tell myself lies with colour and lines.I have been reduced to a caveman, painting with fingers and the blood of the last one. Onto the stone canvas, I mould a story. A story of flames and dejection.
As I focus on the rubble and the smouldering waste, I am abruptly filled with hollowness. In choked desolation, I crumble to the floor just as everything else did. If there was such a thing as god, why oh why, would he so willingly surrender us over to the wings of the devil? I fall into a restless sleep, only to be awakened by my own screams. I am hungry. Not for food, but for human interaction. But every time another person wanders through, they prove to be an excellent meal. Call me insane if you wish, I just don't want to waste food. I feel it seeping into my veins and I know I must distract myself before it happens. I recall my recent dream. After years of waiting, I finally see her. She's stood in a kitchen, it was homely and comforting, and she was decorating a cake. It read: Happy 4th Birthday Joban.
I look down to find a giggling, bronze haired, blue eyed boy at her feet. He is clapping his little hands and stomping his feet. She leans down, her dark hair becoming a curtain around both of them, plants a kiss on his forehead and picks him up. Swiftly, she turns around with him in her arms and beams at me. It's a smile so bright and so genuine, that it reminds me that it's not real.
