The Painters Death Wish

Without primary colours

Imagine an energy vampire holding your hang through an open field. What do you feel? Vulnerability? Fear? Surprisingly this tantalizing whisper that she couldn't hear but feel, gave her warmth. As a fire made out of ice would. It's both a mesmerising and fearful experience, to both know and not know what you're doing.

It had led her to her studio, where she felt around the room. It was looking for something, whining. She then went into the kitchen, grabbed something metallic. Felt its edge and cut her index finger. Walking out she left small red dots on the floor, trailing her walk. She could feel it touching her hand; but to her, it was just a dream.

As she entered; the door slammed shut. But she did not shudder nor wake. She walked calmly to her easel, placed a canvas and painted. With her hand as the brush and her blood as paint, she said a rhyme that it told her to repeat.

"Take my hand." she deepened the cut on her arm.

"Wipe your tears." she woke up.

When she did, she didn't panic. She needed a moment to analyze the situation. The first thing she saw was a blotch of blood and her injured arm. Her hand shook and the impulse travelled to the rest of her body. Her vision blurred from the water in her eyes. The lights were off. Petrified, she screamed. Ran to the door and banged it with her good arm. She was in such a craze that she used her body to make noise, stamping her head against the door. The banging made her dizzy, nearly faint. The sight of blood and its stench made it feel unreal.

She whimpered and dined amongst the brushes on the floor as she fell from the pain. She closed her eyes hard enough to hurt her sockets. This was not a dream, but she wished it was. She kept calling out for her lover but to her dismay-was losing her energy to stand. While puffing and in a panic the door handle started to move. She watched it, as if in slow motion. Churning its way methodically; she froze. It twisted, painstakingly slow and dropped to the floor. Right in front of her. It rolled its way into the shadows and twinkled against the far end of the wall.

"Take my hand." everything stilled.

"Wipe your tears." she wasn't the one speaking.

"Drips of blood." she tried to stand but hit her arm against the wall. With a pinch of pain, she screeched as something moved towards her.

"Will lead you here." It showed itself. All she could hear was something static, blasting in her ear. She didn't realize that she screamed like never before. A hand crept out from the darkness. Like a human without skin, it was as if it was asking her something. To follow it. She watched the middle of its palm fold outwards like a letter. And she saw no blood, no veins. Only muscle. Before she could react; the door opened.

"Dona!" It was from Harry.

She looked up at him and back at the room, and everything was ordinary. The only thing out of the ordinary was the knife in front of her and the cut down her arm. What looked like an attempted suicide to Harry was her worst nightmare. He had consoled her, kicked the knife away and hugged her. She was in such a self-imposed state, she didn't know how to react. She looked over his shoulder and saw, that the canvas- splayed across the floor. Was a finished painting of the one she saw at the Louvre.