The Deep Prick

~Chapter 6~

 
Chapter 6
 
 
 
 
            She sat in her studio; the girl Frances kept secret. She wore her usual overalls, lace scarf around her neck and yellow paint, which had been marked unintentionally over her solar system freckles. She painted a portrait in the serenity of her own space, embracing the music that played over her radio; Oskar Schuster's “Fryderyk.” She brushed strokes on the canvas effortlessly, she smiled calmly, she breathed like the masterpiece was soon to reach its happy ending. And it did. She finished her painting, to reveal a portrait of Frances, overwhelmed by a background, so black. She stared at the portrait, looking at the thoroughly detailed iris of Frances, which captured all of his many hues, like a magical starburst. She stared at the eyes of Frances so fixedly, it was surprising not to see fire from her eyes build and burn a hole right through the painted eyes of Frances'. She finally escaped the eye-gaze and looked at the clock. Then there was a knock on her door. She froze a bit, to take another breath.

   “Come in,” she said.

    Frances opened her front door and walked in, avoiding the best way he could, the wet paint that was splattered all over the bed sheets protecting the floor.

    “Hey,” Frances said almost casually, but more so apprehensive.

     “Hey,” she stood up from her seat, to face Frances, giving him her full attention.

     “Um… you’ve got some road kill on your driveway, you might want to bury it.” From where Frances stood, unmoved, he noticed the painting she had painted and asked, “is that me?” Frances' face was not at all impressed, but confused.

    “Yeah,” she said, glancing at her finished work, with a small smile.

    “Grace, what are you doing?” Frances said, still safely stuck to his position on top of her bed sheets on the floor.

    “Nothing at all, I just wanted to tell you, I’m saying goodbye. You won’t have to see me anymore. I promise,” she said with a serious tone and still giving him her sincere attention.

     “You promise?” Frances asked, quietly and semi skeptical.

    “Promise.” She smiled like Mona Lisa and Frances only wanted to try and understand her.

    As quick as her Mona Lisa smile faded, her quick hands took out a silver pistol from behind her back. She pointed the shiny heart engraved pistol at Frances and shot; the bullet left the chamber, forced its way through the air and right into Frances' chest. The loud pistol-shot permeated the space with vibrating echoes that seemed to never leave. The echoed loud bang mellowed to a sound of a heartbeat; and time seemed to slow, as slow as Frances’ heartbeat, as each beat breathed out was a loss of oxygen to Frances' brain. Frances' legs wobbled their way to the shelving that held the open paint cans. Frances grabbed onto the shelving, in shock, and he fell to the painted fabric covered floor, taking the shelving down with him.

    Grace's hand trembled ever so slightly, as the pistol she had just dropped on the floor, sizzled with a warm smoke from the shaft. She walked calmly to the shelving and struggled to take it off of Frances. She dug her way around the paint cans, to find Frances not breathing, and lifeless in spirit. She looked at the paint covering Frances' body, which seemed to conveniently cover up any blood with contradictory vibrant paint colors. Then she heard a loud screech sound just outside her studio.  She hurried to her front door and opened it, to see Frances’ truck peeling out as it sped away, picking up dust that covered over a dead porcupine in her driveway.

     “Shit,” she said quiet and anxious. She began to breathe heavy with a worried expression, as she looked back at Frances' lifeless body painted with the colors; yellows, greens, blues and pinks.