Ultra-Realistic Drawing

Alove

 The pencil fit his hand like they were meant to work as an only thing.

He started doodling.

Each line, each curve, each space, each sound, so perfect together... even more perfect than he thought. So precious... His lines were so perfect that came to be scary.

The drawing, finished, gave him a wonderful woman, the woman of his dream.

Even though it was his own drawing, he was amazed. The lines drowned in the paper, flashing lines between the lines and dark shades.

He would try to shade the feminine form, but he was astonished, amazed, hypnotized. He fawned the paper with his finger, softly, immerse in dreams and thoughts. In each touch, the lines got softer, darker, deeper, they tried to get up, asking apologies between his fingers, looking for a way out. The drawing was gaining life.

All his caress transferred to the paper, to the drawing. All his love.

A beautiful woman was gaining strength throughout the paper. But still something not happy, not full of life. Almost lifeless, just not completely because of her forms, her movement, to get out from the blank space.

Edwin realized he hadn't put a smile in her face. She was just a delightful lady, looking down with a sad expression.

She stared at him, and became surprised in how much he seemed to admire her.

He got closer. He touched her shoulder, and then her arm. She didn't have any reaction. And he realized that she wasn't much lifeful. She was just a girl — existing.

Due to that, he got back to the paper, and feeling the form of the lady, where she was before, he started writing on her skin, and like a lot of tattoos, they were revealing itself in the lady's body, suddenly changing as the words told her to do so.

In the end, she was a beautiful tattooed girl, now smiling with a life glimpse in the eyes as a living person. No more just something, but someone.

In a moment staring at each other, like two different things. And in the other, both in a hug, surrounded by arms, like one only thing, inert, each one in one another.

She smelled good. A flower perfume, or something else. That smell would be in his nose forever, installed in his memories like something from the present, all the time, all along his life.

An eraser shouldn't erase none of that. That'd be the end.

He felt life in his fingers, tingling, almost painful.

That life comes from me, he might have thought.

He drew a rabbit. One creature. A mouse. Another creature. A monster. A castle, a fake one.

The lady watched him, as he was something else in the world, loose.

The boy felt life fainting away from him.

All the creatures came with a feeling of disgrace.

Oh, my life, my love, deal with pain, them regrets, falling away from me, 'till I am no more.

He knew he had to draw that...

A skeletal creature flew from the blank paper, carrying a sickle, with dead eyes, wearing rags and floating like a balloon.

Everything was so fast.

The lady was watching, on the corner of the bedroom, scared to death, everything happening.

The boy tried to escape. But what could he do? What could he had done against his own death?

The lady screamed.

The sickle sang.

Blood wasn't shed, but a body fell, motionless.

The pencil fell from the table. And a sentence was revealed, while the lady and all other creatures died and vanished in the air: from life comes death.

Just a single tear was dropped by the lady, before she was torn to dust.