Look Into My Eyes... Now Die For Me

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The sound of chiselling has been in your ears for too long. Your hands are tired of tapping away lightly at the chisel. Your fingers ache from the buffing process. Your eyes smart from the wood flakes and dust. You curse Klaviar quietly, but refuse to stop.

The idea of money at the end of this did not help to push you on. Instead, the vindication for Kitty's recent death pushed you on. You have to get the money for this job. You have to make it before Kitty's funeral.

You feel another sneeze rising up your nose, and turn away from your masterpiece at the last minute, directing your saliva and diseased air away. Working with wood continuously for two days had made your airways irritated, and you are sure you are going to get some sort of lung infection if you continue like this for the week.

You are almost done. You keep telling yourself that you are almost done. When you are, you will take a breather while Dylan sets up the meeting. If you continue feeling horrible, then you have no choice but to pass the job of bringing the piece for authentication to Danaus.

You know you are feeling terrible. Your throat is sore. Your mouth is dry as sandpaper. Your eyes are smarting endlessly. You feel dehydrated and weak. You are hungry to the extent that you cannot feel yourself anymore. You have not slept since you started, and your headache is made worse by the constant sounds of chiselling and buffing. The heat is taking something out of you, and you feel giddy.

Press on, you tell yourself. It is almost done. Your masterwork of Klaviar is going to get you and your guys a good win. This job is a big moneymaker. The team has left you to your silence in the garage, knowing better than to disturb you. You are no artist, only a con artist, but you demanded the silence and solitude of artists when they went down to their works. Even if you were forging, it didn't meant that you couldn't be professional about it.

You angle the chisel in the last corner, the last corner to finish the piece before you buff it and coat it in special varnish. Gently, you tap at the wood, making a soft scrape. Your turn the corner of the chisel and press it against the wood, bringing it softly across the tight corner ever so slightly. There. Your signature.

You straighten up from your work, wobbling when the blood rushes up to your head suddenly. You place the chisel and hammer safely at the side. Buffing could wait after a two-days-awaited break.

You take a step forwards, feeling funny. You have never over exerted yourself like this before. You have never felt like this before. It is funny. Quaint. Like you are flying at the moment.

You take another step forwards, and lose your balance along with your consciousness.

You crash on the floor, sending the equipment on the tray along with you.

It is not like you are aware anymore, anyway.

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He gets curious when he hears the sound of a crash. He looks up from the encyclopedia that he had been reading from, a subtle hint of a frown creasing smooth forehead. He turns to the sound of someone walking into the living area.

"Hey, you heard that? You think something happened to Mr. Artist in the garage?" Jake asks, the same confused look. Jake had not been with your group until two years ago, but inexperienced as he was, the young man knew something was wrong with you by the way you locked yourself up in the garage, barring entry.

He waits for moment, listening intently. Upstairs, Dylan was blasting from his shooting computer games. Other than that... there was silence.

He looks back to Jake, nothing but a serious look in his eyes. He rarely showed his emotions to Jake and Dylan anymore. Only you could convince some sort of emotion on his face. Only you, and only the many Kittys that he lost.