Stories Written In The Dark

My Painting Cries Blood

"Why is she smiling?" Mom asked, gesturing to the painting before me. I shrugged, though I'm not sure I was paying attention. My eyes were rooted on the spot, unable to look away. It was a fair question. Why was she smiling? 

"That's just how she is," I replied. "She likes to smile." 

In truth, I had no idea why I'd drawn that smile onto her face. It just felt...right. 

"How'd you make her Drystan?" Mom said, her hands reaching out as if to touch the girl within the portrait. The next few seconds were a blur. One moment I was holding a paintbrush, the next I was grasping at her wrist, clamping down so hard I felt the bones shift inside her hand.

"Ow!" she yelled, wrestling her arm from my iron claws. "What was that for?" she glared.

"You might ruin the paint!" I said, already turning back to see the painting again. I sighed in relief. "Ok, it's alright." I said, more to myself than anyone else. The painting was safe. It was fine. I realized how pretty she was. She looked almost like me, I realized. But there was one difference. 

She radiated confidence. Her head held high, she stared at us as if to say we were ants underneath her feet. Perhaps we were. Her hands were clean, I noticed. Mine were constantly speckled with drops of paint. 

We could be friends, I thought. I'd never had a friend before. Was that odd for a fourteen-year old? I'd never thought about it before. I was more focused on my painting. I smiled, watching as the light shone off my masterpiece. 

"What's her name?" Mom asked jokingly. "Your kid needs a name, you know." 

I rolled my eyes, but decided to indulge her. "Leila. Her name's Leila." I decided. Mom smiled, waving at the painting with a chuckle. But something in her movements felt...stiff. Like she was forcing the emotions out. 

"Nice to meet you Leila."

************************

Normally, when I finished a painting, I'd keep it in storage or something. Nothing fancy, just some place where I could keep my drawings and sketches and look back at them when I needed to. But Leila had enchanted me. Something about her was magnetic, alluring. Like the scales of a snake getting ready to strike. 

"You stare at that thing every morning," Mom told me, setting down our plates for dinner as I stared at the photos in the living room. A lot of them were of me when I was a baby. Mom never took them out, even when we had to repaint. I never knew why. I stared at the drawing on the far left. My dad died a while back, and that was the only picture I had of him. 

One I'd drawn myself. 

Three stick figures holding hands around a bunch of flowers. Simpler times. 

You were naïve, said the voice in my mind. Maybe I was. I remembered waiting at the window everyday, waiting for dad to come home. Every time the doorbell rang I'd run to get it, each time my hopes diminishing more and more as the years passed.

No 4-year-old should have to go through that. I didn't even get to see his body. It's all just a blur now. 

"Drystan?" Mom said, sitting down on the couch. "You okay honey?"

I nodded, my stomach turning at the sight of the drawing. Something sticky and unpleasant lodged itself into my throat. My legs quivered. "Y-yeah. I'm fine," I told her. "Just heading off to get an early night's rest."