Amber is fast asleep upstairs, but like always I'm wide awake and scurrying about in my art studio. It's storming outside and the sound of the thunder bounces off the walls as I stare at the empty canvas from earlier.
It's coming with every clap of thunder.
My brain is glass cracking with each loud roar.
I close my eyes and the next one is so loud it does the job. My body moves and my vision goes black as an image starts to morph. My finger touches the canvas and something in me awakens. My eyesight is restored and the image I want to paint is clear as day and no longer a mystery. Looking at my left hand barely touching the canvas there is no blue latex glove on it. I'm a searchlight that's been fixed and can finally see in the dark.
Smiling, I lose myself in the painting, not darkness. The texture of the canvas feels so good against my bare skin and instead of my body contorting and quickly jabbing around, I'm moving slowly along with it.
The night ticks by and my mind is peaceful, not numb anymore. The depression I had felt for the last few weeks slowly flickers away as I intoxicate myself into the thing I love doing the most in the world. My fingers are covered in thick paint and the latex no longer suppresses the expressions I've longed to connect with.
This unparalleled openness is something so foreign to me but freeing. My head no longer throbs despite the fracture. If anything, it's good like I'm realigning myself.
It's three in the morning and I'm on the last portion. My finger is adding shadows to an outstretched arm that looks as if it's being extended to its maximum capacity in a desperate attempt to beg for mercy or something. Once I accentuate the thick muscles I step back taking it all in.
It's black and white and despite the lack of color there's an angry and raw emotion to it that doesn't need pigment to expose it. The far left is a large image of half of a man's face that is cut off by the edge of the canvas. His mouth is wide open as if he's screaming in pain, anguish or some kind of despair with his head pointed up showcasing his long neck that is corded with strained muscles.
It's a still painting but oddly feels alive. Every fleck of skin coming off the man transforms into ash and seems to be in real time, not a fictional one created by whoever this girl is.
Wrath is the word that comes to mind. That this man either allowed his rage to destroy him or as if God had, had enough and is in the process of ripping out his soul.
It's eerie, especially as it seems like the man is disintegrating by how his skin is peeling off slowly as it floats upwards into ash. As I take in the beard and tattoos I realized the unidentified man I had originally thought of painting... is Adonis.
My eyes immediately go over to the portrait I did of his little sister. Inspiration hits me hard and I run over to dad's tool bench that's pushed in the far corner. I dig out a utility knife and cut the picture out of the canvas and step up tilting my head at the beauty of this man and how I captured it so well despite his demise in it.
I get to work and add her portrait and rearrange some parts of the painting. When the clock reads four I am finally done. JoJo's portrait is right on Adonis's chest and I painted it to become one with him.
Before I can appreciate it a hard knock comes at the garage door leading to the outside. Going over I open it and I immediately back away as two bodies stumble in knocking over some of my paintings.
Just by his shape alone I know Adonis is the one holding up the other guy. They're soaked and panting heavily. Drops of rain fall over Adonis's face and make his scar shine and pearl eye pop. His hair falls randomly in front of his face and his shirt is stuck to every piece of him. The night's darkness hides most of his face from me, but the way he holds this unknown person so tensely and raggedly tells me something is wrong.
"I need your help."