you count the graveyard.
My hands pushed against the wooden door, expecting to be met with resistance, but it gave way to my touch. I stepped into the building, and out of the moonlight. The interior was black, but I could still see with my Martis vision. However, the comforts of sunlight, like the fact that it chases the creepies away, were missing. I wrung my hands, and walked forward. I passed through a small entryway, and perfectly aligned pews covered in a thick layer of white dust. My feet pressed softly to stone. The sound of my footfalls broke the silence. The stained glass that was intact glimmered in the moonlight. Shattered panes revealed stars, as the coolness of the night air leaked in through the openings. I don’t know if I loved it because it was abandoned, or because it had once been beautiful—and now it was broken.
When I reached the front of the church, I stopped. The crucifix was gone. The altar stuff was gone. Everything that wasn’t bolted down, like the pews, had walked off. A large rose window hung high above the altar. It had more colors than a kaleidoscope. I sat down, and folded my legs under me, my gaze fixed on the round window. The air was still. I sat alone, in the hallowed space, feeling lost and helpless. Defeat was beckoning me. I slumped forward. The scrolled canvas poked me in the chest.
Reaching into my jacket, I removed the canvas. I unpeeled my jacket from my sweat soaked body, and tossed it to the floor. The chill in the night air made me feel better. Desperately wishing I could control this mess; my fingers unrolled the painting onto the floor. The canvas was small. It was much more manageable stripped from the stretchers. The thought that I’d stolen from a church, well, that hadn’t crossed my mind yet. It felt like I had a right to this painting—I needed it. I lived or died by what was in this thing. It was about me, and I had to know how I got to the point in the painting—the point where everything went wrong.
My fingers slid across the oils, as I studied the faces. The humans looked peaceful and happy. No faces jumped out at me. They were all strangers, wearing clothes not recognizable from any era. My eyes slid to the depiction of me. Anguish was washed over my face. The girl in the painting looked the same way that I felt. Confused. Lost. Alone.
Her fingers were woven tightly together with the boy’s. He would fall, if she let go. I wouldn’t let go. I wouldn’t just let him die .
Slapping the painting, I spoke to myself, “How does that make me evil?” I didn’t understand. I held the canvas closer, shaking my head. At the edge of the painting, there were small markings in gold paint. The frame had covered these before, so I couldn’t see them. I looked at them, hoping to make sense of their tiny intricate patterns, but that’s all it was—a pattern. Something that would look pretty in place of a frame.
Desperation surged through me, filling my veins. It poured out my mouth in a raw scream. I clutched my face with my hands, not knowing what to do. There was nothing there. There were no clues as to how I would become this sinister monster. When I looked at it again, I had hoped that I would have a revelation or something. But I didn’t. Nothing. There was nothing else there. My eyes searched the paint for signs of hope, direction, or anything that would help me. But there was nothing. I’d have to figure it out on my own. Alone.
Brush strokes were painted, cutting into the dark cliffs, forming little paths. All of the paths seemingly led nowhere. No wonder why all these people were stuck on the cliff. There was no way out. That summed up my new life. There was no way out. I was the only purple marked freak out there. Until I messed up, and threw this guy off a cliff . Maybe that was how I became evil? Maybe it wasn’t that I tried to save him, but that I didn’t save him. Letting him die, if I could prevent it, wasn’t something that I would do.
My hands pushed against the wooden door, expecting to be met with resistance, but it gave way to my touch. I stepped into the building, and out of the moonlight. The interior was black, but I could still see with my Martis vision. However, the comforts of sunlight, like the fact that it chases the creepies away, were missing. I wrung my hands, and walked forward. I passed through a small entryway, and perfectly aligned pews covered in a thick layer of white dust. My feet pressed softly to stone. The sound of my footfalls broke the silence. The stained glass that was intact glimmered in the moonlight. Shattered panes revealed stars, as the coolness of the night air leaked in through the openings. I don’t know if I loved it because it was abandoned, or because it had once been beautiful—and now it was broken.
When I reached the front of the church, I stopped. The crucifix was gone. The altar stuff was gone. Everything that wasn’t bolted down, like the pews, had walked off. A large rose window hung high above the altar. It had more colors than a kaleidoscope. I sat down, and folded my legs under me, my gaze fixed on the round window. The air was still. I sat alone, in the hallowed space, feeling lost and helpless. Defeat was beckoning me. I slumped forward. The scrolled canvas poked me in the chest.
Reaching into my jacket, I removed the canvas. I unpeeled my jacket from my sweat soaked body, and tossed it to the floor. The chill in the night air made me feel better. Desperately wishing I could control this mess; my fingers unrolled the painting onto the floor. The canvas was small. It was much more manageable stripped from the stretchers. The thought that I’d stolen from a church, well, that hadn’t crossed my mind yet. It felt like I had a right to this painting—I needed it. I lived or died by what was in this thing. It was about me, and I had to know how I got to the point in the painting—the point where everything went wrong.
My fingers slid across the oils, as I studied the faces. The humans looked peaceful and happy. No faces jumped out at me. They were all strangers, wearing clothes not recognizable from any era. My eyes slid to the depiction of me. Anguish was washed over my face. The girl in the painting looked the same way that I felt. Confused. Lost. Alone.
Her fingers were woven tightly together with the boy’s. He would fall, if she let go. I wouldn’t let go. I wouldn’t just let him die .
Slapping the painting, I spoke to myself, “How does that make me evil?” I didn’t understand. I held the canvas closer, shaking my head. At the edge of the painting, there were small markings in gold paint. The frame had covered these before, so I couldn’t see them. I looked at them, hoping to make sense of their tiny intricate patterns, but that’s all it was—a pattern. Something that would look pretty in place of a frame.
Desperation surged through me, filling my veins. It poured out my mouth in a raw scream. I clutched my face with my hands, not knowing what to do. There was nothing there. There were no clues as to how I would become this sinister monster. When I looked at it again, I had hoped that I would have a revelation or something. But I didn’t. Nothing. There was nothing else there. My eyes searched the paint for signs of hope, direction, or anything that would help me. But there was nothing. I’d have to figure it out on my own. Alone.
Brush strokes were painted, cutting into the dark cliffs, forming little paths. All of the paths seemingly led nowhere. No wonder why all these people were stuck on the cliff. There was no way out. That summed up my new life. There was no way out. I was the only purple marked freak out there. Until I messed up, and threw this guy off a cliff . Maybe that was how I became evil? Maybe it wasn’t that I tried to save him, but that I didn’t save him. Letting him die, if I could prevent it, wasn’t something that I would do.
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