Villain in the Canvas

Chapter 6

As I approached the cabin I caught a clearer view of the warped wood, both ancient and strong. The stripped green door drew me in, the symbol of an eye with flames arcing off the top felt familiar, like I had designed it myself as Neil had suggested.

He seemed to believe this was my own creation, he was simply the conduit to making it feasible. I'm confident he was being modest with his contribution to the instant build but I had to admit there was some deeper part of me that resonated with the building, enticing me to enter.

It was what Neil had mentioned this place was more vibration and energy and less physical and fixed. It explained how events and movements seemed to occur instantly and without explanation. The river felt like liquid energy, the shock and burn from it that energized you afterward, the energy I could still feel now.

Moving up to the door and grasping the handle I slowly enter to the fragrance of pine permeating the room. The interior was an optical illusion, looking at least three times the size from the outside. I do a double-take and quickly step back to the porch to confirm the small exterior. Sure enough, it was the size of a single bedroom but expanded to a massive interior, dimly illuminated by recessed lights lining the vaulted ceiling, again pitched well above the roof outside.  

Three of the wood-paneled walls were lined with shelves filled with various objects and picture frames. The fourth wall to my left was bare besides a massive white canvas hanging dead center. The center of the room was cleared besides a long L shaped couch in the center facing the canvas.

Moving over to the nearest shelving I see a decades-old faded picture of an infant cuddling a stuffed rabbit. Seated on the shelf next to the picture was the exact same tattered and worn hare. I pick it up and immediately an image hijacks my field of vision; I was little, maybe four and running through a field of dead grass towards a large pond in the distance, the tattered rabbit dragging behind me, a large black dog galloping alongside me, keeping guard.

Panicked by the abruptness I drop the rabbit and stumble back, my sight back to viewing the shelves again. I had suddenly remembered something long lost over the years that was intoxicating to feel it again, to taste a lost moment. Walking along the shelves to the photos lining the walls I could see myself growing older in photos of memories captured.

In one frame, I am jumping into a swimming pool, my body just starting to part the water as I pinched my nose, eyes shut. Next to the picture was a pair of goggles. I waste no time grasping them to see my sight transported to that moment. It was my first cannonball and I can see and hear my brothers chanting my name as I took the leap. I had a fear of the water up to then and that first jump eventually led me to become a regular fish in the water.

Quickly moving to the next picture, I was eight and had a BB gun aimed at some cans sitting on a long log, my father proudly pointing at the targets while giving pointers, our best bonding. Laying alongside the frame was my first pocket knife and the exact BB gun.

I reminisce the scene clearly as I grip the stock; I had kept missing the targets and had gotten frustrated. Throwing down the gun I started walking off, tears stinging my eyes. Ron stepped in front of me as I stormed off, gun braced firmly out before me, not allowing me to quit.

We spent hours out there until I had finally found my groove and could consecutively ping the cans down. It was the first tough lesson I got from him and I smiled at the thought.  What was strange was the picture itself, where did it come from? There was no one else there, just the two of us.

A bit confused, I move to the next picture of my brothers and I hiking our first camping trip, aka survival excursion. I stare at it for a moment, everyone who was there that day was already in the photo, who actually took this picture?