The Masterpiece - A Short Story

Act III

That same night, I picked up the painting with my rigid hands and threw it outside in the backyard. Never in my life have I wanted to dispose of something so quickly.

I gathered some black burnt wood and my brother's lighter and lightly singed the edges of the cursed painting. The fire spread quickly throughout the canvas, charring the fabric rapidly and leaving a strong, burning scent outside. The tips of my fingers turned white when I held down on that lighter and I didn't regret any second of it. Gabe was already in his bed by then in those blue walls, that ungrateful boy.

I tried so hard to love him.

Second, by second, the portrait burst into flames within the fire pit. The colors turned black and dull, while the frame lay there, charred. I shortly then extinguished the flame with a bucket of water, not leaving any drops to stay there. My hands let go of the lighter.

I walked back into my room, trying to not make a noise and I stuffed the wood somewhere dark and dingy. I glanced at the clock and it had just struck 11:00. Great. I started to wash my face in the mirror, using too much soap for my skin to bear, and too much water for my breath to handle. Minutes later, I rest my weary head back on the pillow and close my eyes, trying to forget everything that I went through.

we went through.

At that very moment, I thought about whether or not I should forgive him, because I knew what he felt and I understood him at that moment. He's just a kid, why do I have to bring this to him at this time? I remembered the moments we had as children, too small to ride a bike, too small to express our feelings. We used to run around the garden with my mother while my father was out smoking in the garage. I chuckled.

I just wished everything would come back to that. Whether or not our parents thought lowly of my life, I just wanted a time when Gabe and I would sit back and talk about something we both liked, like my mom's cooking or that one time we both screamed and  puked at the roller coaster ride in that amusement park. I missed those times.

My eyes slowly drifted back and forth, just like a pendulum, counting the sheep in the sky, my mother's favorite technique to fall asleep. I took one breath and started to rest.

---

3:00. Past midnight. My night vision starts to blur through the dark room. I try to make out what I heard past the hallway and I notice that my door is wide open. I heard a few creaks from outside, but I concluded that it was just the wind.

What was that? I hear heavy breathing outside. Like a man, panting for his last breaths. Footsteps encroach on the carpet leading to the stairs. I thought to myself: "Why is Gabe up this late? He must have gotten some water."

The footsteps sounded different. Like leather shoes throughout the room. There were long pauses after each step. He wouldn't do that.

I begin to open my eyes a little further, trying to scan the room for anything that Gabe might have done. And then I saw it.

The painting. It hung on the wall once more. But this time, the man wasn't inside the portrait. Just an orange, baron desert with black, thorny trees scattered around.

I rub my eyes again, picking out the morning glory from the nighttime wind. It's still there. The painting.

I gazed back at the door, and I saw a black cloak grazing against the wind, almost flapping and touching the ground, too. Was that a person?

I buried my head in my sheets and started to panic without making a noise. My breathing was heavy, coarse, sharp, and dark. It was corrosive. I silently flapped my sheets under my chin and looked back at the door.

There was nothing there. No footsteps, no people. No breathing, no wind.

But as I started to close my eyelids, I heard something. A creaking noise, right beneath the bedroom door of my dearest brother, Gabriel.

I looked back at the hanging picture of the canvas, it was still there. I stood up and tried to examine it again when I heard the most chilling sound of my life.

My brother was screaming in pain as if he was under an operation. His voice was weak, but at the same time strong, echoing throughout the walls of our house. I tore through the bedroom door, even if my limbs were still sore and drowsy, and without hesitation, I barged through the door.

It was locked.

No amount of my strength could unlock that stupid handle. Kick after kick, chair after chair, scream after scream, I yelled at the top of my lungs his name.

"Gabe?"

No response. Just more gut-wrenching wails coming from inside of the room. Every breath he took it felt like an eternity. I knew he could scream loud, but not this loud. I didn't know what happened at the other side of that entrance, no slicing or beating sounds, just his voice.

I slipped while I tried to retrieve my phone from the nightstand; I begged my hands to function to call 911. Wrong numbers. Wrong numbers. 921, 922, 811. My hands were sweaty, I couldn't hold my cell phone any longer, and I dropped it on the wooden floor and it broke with rupturing glass shards.

"Shit." The curse came out of my mouth and I tried to open the lights with my fist and run to the first story to open the door and call for help.

The door was locked.

I tried my very hardest to move the metal moving parts with my sweaty, almost drenched fingers, but to no avail. I punched the door, hoping for it to open on its own but I was stuck in the same situation. His screams were still extremely loud from the living room.

But then it stopped.

Everything stopped. His screams, the sweat from my forehead, even the wind outside. I tried to turn my head to the other side but I was inexplicably stopped.

Two, cold, cold hands were stationed on each of my shoulders, ready to continue with me. I face my back and I find those two soulless eyes once more. He looked at me, with a blank expression, his wrinkled and pale skin almost moving from the wind. I was frozen. Frozen in time.

He spoke to me in a rough voice.

"Just doing you a favor."