Unfinished Painting

Number Six

With no money left for the burial, Bounty had to decide; To leave or to leave behind. 

"I won't be my brother, I won't leave, father. I am a son and a son with duties. But I cannot afford a burial, I pray that you forgive me. I will become a great painter, a new life awaits me. I will leave behind a legacy. But this little house, it belongs to you. In it, there isn't much I can do. How I wish brother were here to bid you adieu." 

Bounty stepped outside his house, little as it was, there wasn't much to look at: its crooked walls and dilapidated windows, "just like my heart, full of sorrows...but no more." He heaved. With low eyes and a sour mood, he lit a match and looked up to watch. Everything went ablaze.

When he saw that people were reminiscing his father through his recent painting, he called it Burning House. Almost identical to the memory, the strokes looked harsh, alive and roused. But Bounty remained disturbed. In his new home, he sat in a large chair by the fireplace, alone. 

"Why mustn't he leave me? Why must his memory haunt me? Haven't I been a good son? Why, must it feel like I'm coming undone? You're in my nightmares, father. You're in them all the time. Sometimes, I can explain them, they must be benign, but sometimes they terrorise and sometimes they scare, sometimes it's happening, it's like you're really there. Was it a mistake, leaving you in the fire? Are you angry, agitated, hurt, disappointed? What more could I have done? What more do I hold on to? A corpse that decays or a hope that stays?"

He watched as the fire gently danced, little embers flying up. He leaned in to feel, the heat and coal. A reminder, he thought, a reminder that it's all over now.