𝙏𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙨

2

𝚃𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜,
𝙳𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚎  𝚖𝚎, 
𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜, 
𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚎.

                                -----

Joseph's POV

The witching hour strikes, and I'm thrust awake, gasping for air. The ghostly residue of my nightmares clings to the edges of reality, and the specter of my father's wrath echoes through the darkness. The cacophony of his furious voice reverberates, accusing me of being ungrateful, unworthy, a vessel of disappointment. In the twisted script of my dreams, he inflicts unspeakable violence upon my mother, each blow etching its mark on my tortured soul.
Silence descends, but the echoes linger, haunting my consciousness like a relentless shadow. A glance towards the clock reveals 3 AM – the unholy hour when my past ghosts return to torment me.

I rise, a phantom in the night, drawn to the balcony like a moth to a flame. The chill night air bites at my skin as I light a cigarette, the ember casting fleeting shadows on my memories. The smoke curls around my thoughts, a tangible barrier against the suffocating weight of my past.

My mind takes me back to a twisted crossroads – the police station, a sanctuary I sought in desperation. Yet, my mother's betrayal shattered any illusion of refuge. She denied the truth, leaving me to face the monster alone, perpetuating the cycle of agony.
In the quiet exhale of smoke, my thoughts meander to Briana Rodriguez, a tempest from my middle school days. She dared to defy the norm, to slap me when no one else had the courage. I was an asshole, draped in the arrogance of my insecurities.

Strangely, her slap left me feeling nothing but an eerie numbness, an emotional vacuum. Briana's bold act, a stark contrast to my father's brutality, became a beacon in my foggy past. Unable to forget her, I embraced an unconventional form of connection – painting. The canvas became a haven where I could capture her essence, freezing the fire of her spirit in strokes and shades.
Nobody knew that Joseph, the enigma, could wield a paintbrush with such finesse. The juxtaposition of brutality and artistry, shadows and strokes, is my silent rebellion – a testament to the duality that defines my existence. In the quiet solitude of the night, I find solace in the canvas, a sanctuary where the ghosts of my past coexist with the artistry that sets me free.

As I gaze at the artwork adorning my room, questions echo in the silence of the night. Does she remember me? Where is she now, and what path has life carved for her? The uncertainty adds another layer to the complex tapestry of my existence.

However, a harsh reality interrupts the contemplation. My brother is no more – his absence a persistent ache in my heart. His untimely departure underscores my primary mission – to find the murderer who extinguished his light. In the quiet resolve of the night, I remind myself that there are pressing battles ahead, greater than the haunting beauty of a painted memory.

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