Eliora (boyxboy)

Prologue

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The clock on the wall seemed louder than it was a few minuets ago. My head hurt. The dull throb accompanied with a sheen layer of sweat that dripped down my forehead. My head buzzed and ached as images fluttered past my eyes.

My hands scribbled on the page in front me, the sharp edged charcoal pencil creating intricate lines on the canvas paper.

What I was drawing? I couldn't tell you, all I knew was it was a dark, bloody mess that my sadistic teacher might find to be genius. my eyes blurred as my mind played images before my eyes.

The pictures moved before me, the frozen bite of the room felt ethereal, making goosebumps cover the expanse of my skin. It was dark, the pitch black unlike nothing I've ever seen. Anyone would've been frightened. I should've been scared.

But I wasn't.

If I wasn't so used to it, I probably would've screamed at what I was seeing, at all the blood that covered the walls, but I didn't. I was used to it, it was nothing new, it'd been happening for so long, I barely flinched when my vision blurred and the lights turned out.

So as my hands scribbled zeleously on the page, as my mind played images no person would wish to see, as my eyes glazed over, as they watched what was happening, I didn't move an inch, my body was still slouched in the chair, my legs spread lazily apart.

Others watching me would know nothing of my tense shoulders and aching head, they'd think I was doing nothing but day dreaming, many people have doubted my work, and I don't blame them, I look nothing like the type to be as creative as they believe I am.

I look nothing like the person they believe to be a genius of the art world. Someone who paints such vivid and intricately drawn, realistic paintings.

If only they knew that I knew nothing of art. I didn't know squat shit about different coloured pencils and charcoal pens, nor did I care really. I simply just let my mind take over, I let the demons do their worst. For those few minutes or hours, I let the dogs run wild, all the voices that were screaming in my head inconsolably, would finally be let out and onto the paper.

The dark, bloody, gruesome visions were transformed into beautifully drawn images. They looked simply magnificent on paper, even I could agree, but I had no way of knowing how in hell I'd drawn them.

Most of the time, I doubted that this came from my own hands. It didn't seem as so, when you looked at it, I'd never even shown interest in art before, but one day, I just started to draw and see things, they were pretty horrid at first, but after so many years, I'd grown immune to them. I'd found it as an escape to all the screams, I'd found a vice, a way of letting go of all the images, taking them off my mind permanently, by transferring them onto a canvas

The dark finally started to fade off back into my mind, the screaming voices started to die down and the blood seemed to fade away as the room finally came into focus.

My hands stopped scribbling, the pads of my fingers were red with irritation as my horridly chipped finger nails scratched at the led of the pencil.

I dropped the pencil on the table and eyed the drawing.

My face remained balnk as I looked at it, my grimace growing the longer I stared at it. It was vivid alright. You could make out the blood stained walls, the stray body parts that were discarded carelessly around the room like butchered meat, the knives that stabbed deep into the skin of the victims, taking their life.

I would scoff if I wasn't so repulsed with myself, I had no idea what the fuck was happening in the picture, why the people were being butchered like pigs. It didn't make sense to me, but I'd been told not to question it.

I remember once voicing this to my tenth grade art teacher. I'd told her my art didn't make sense, but I guess she didn't get it, or maybe she thought I was saying some type of artistic bullshit, because she just looked at me with a smile.

"Art doesn't have to make sense child. It only has to make you feel. " She said.

I didnt get it then, neither do I get it now, and in all fairness, looking back on my tenth year in her class, I'm positive that she probably had a few screws lose, but then again, most artists do.

Just look at me.

A shadow cast apon the page I was inspecting, a soft gasp could be herd over my shoulder and I didn't need to be psychic to know what was coming next.

"Oh how wonderful Raven!" The woman gushed, as she snatched the book right out of my hands. The rest of the class, I could tell, probably rolled their eyes at her, she always says that, but even they could admit, my art was good. Fantastic even, I was the only one in this room that could create such vivid and realistic art. Not that I created them myself anyway.

I plastered a smile onto my face. "Thank you Miss Grande." I said, my voice lacing with honey. It was repulsive how she could look at the paper like I'd done something magnificent.

It was people dying and getting killed, what was so beautiful about that? But I couldn't blame her, she must've just thought I was a troubled teen, that had way too vivid pictures fluttering through my mind, which was exactly it, but what are the odds that she was actually right.

She put her hand to her chest, her lips pursed as she continued to admire the drawing.

"It's simply beautiful! The design, the simplistic way you used the charcoal. It's, it's.....well, I have no words." She turned to look back at me, her eyes looked mesmerised as she handed my sketch book back to me. "Well done Raven. You've outdone yourself this time lad." She smiled one last time before walking torward another desk.

My smile slipped off my face, the paper was back in front of me and the screams of those people seemed to replay in my head again.

The painting spoke volume to some people. Someone had even told me that one of my paintings reminded them of their dead mother. The point was, people saw something in my drawings.

It was atrocious how people could look at the picture and not feel repulsed, they didn't even look fazed at all the blood spilled over very picture I'd make. Never once questioned why in the world every picture I'd ever drawn depicted someone dying or being killed. They just smiled and said they got the message I was trying to express. I never had the courage to tell them they were as sick as the bloody idiot who made me like this for seeing something in those pictures. Because it was art. Art spoke to people in various ways. In the words of my tenth grade art teacher, it made them feel.

But to me, it had its own message. It spoke to me in a different way than it did others and when I said my art didn't make sense, it was because it truly never made sense.

But this one in front of me was dead clear. The knives that we're logged deep in the skin of the dead on the picture had their own small almost tiny drawing on them, you'd have to squint to see it. A symbol, shown clear as day to me.

The person hiding in the corner of the room, was an overlooked feature, I'm sure miss Grande hadn't even taken a second to look there, but there he was, a sardonic smile on his face, his blue eyes were dark, evil and sad, the wings on his back covered in the dark crimson red of the blood that he'd spilled on the walls, his hands were smeared in red and his teeth were as sharp as knives.

The message was clear.

The demons shall rise again.

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