Ian couldn’t remember drinking alcohol, but he must have. He’d never felt so hung over. He couldn’t remember much. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten home. Had there been an accident? There must have been. There was a large bruise along the trapezius muscle of his neck. He checked his messages on his phone, looking for clues. The only message was from the art gallery that had exhibited his paintings. The night had been a success. That was a relief. He couldn’t wait to see his first paycheck.
Ian showered and got some breakfast. He felt weak. He hoped he wasn’t catching a flu bug. He was anxious to get started on his next collection. He felt strange, not like his usual self at all. He looked over the sketches he’d made. He knew what he wanted to paint, but something was wrong. He couldn’t understand it. He couldn’t get his hands to work like they were supposed to. He couldn’t make the brushes work the way he wanted them to. The paints felt wrong too. What had happen to him? He looked at his work, and didn’t recognize what he’d done as his. It was all wrong, like something done by a child. He’d seen finger paintings that were better.
He tried again, and again. It was as though he’d lost all of his skills as an artist. What had happened to him? He couldn’t remember. Something bad had happened to him, like a stroke only worse. He didn’t know what, but he remembered having a dream. He’d made a promise. “Be careful when you talk to strangers and whatever you do, don’t leave with one.” Of course he’d stay put. He promised not to leave until he was told otherwise. It was a silly dream, but it felt like it had been real, like something from his childhood. “Promise me that you won’t leave this room. No matter what.” He’d felt foolish, but he’d agreed. This was a chance of a lifetime. He’d have sold his soul if that had been an option. All he’d ever wanted was to be an artist. He shook his head, as if to clear the mental cobwebs from his mind. It had been a silly dream. Perhaps his skills would return to him after he smoked his first cigarette of the day. Maybe he wasn’t ready to quit just yet. He couldn’t seem to stop his hands from shaking.
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One Last Cigarette, A Companion Story to The Williamson Vampires Series
VampirIan wished he hadn't given up smoking. He wiped his sweaty palms against his jeans. This was his first exhibition. Nine pieces of his soul hung on the walls of the small room. This was it. This was his chance, his dream come to life. He'd only...
