He strokes the canvas. With his eyes closed, and with a gentle enough touch, he can almost convince himself that he is feeling her skin, petal-soft, beneath his fingers. How he misses the feel of her. He can look at photos, listen to recordings, smell her perfume. But the sensation of his skin on hers, that can never be revisited. He swallows the lump in his throat.
In front of him, a meticulously mixed palette of colours – her colours, matched to the exact shade of her eyes, skin, lips and hair – glistens in the hazy garage light. It is as though she is here, all the parts of her, just waiting to be put back together. The thought brings him comfort. She has not gone, not really. Not when she can be re-created again and again, each time a greater likeness. If he just keeps going, perhaps he can conjure her back from the dead. He wields his paintbrush like a magic wand. A super-power, that’s what this is. This artistic gift of his. Dare he say it, he’s a God of sorts, if you really think about it.
She so loved it when he was out here painting. He bristles a little at the thought that she might have relished the time away from him. That maybe that was when she… no, he wouldn’t think of such things. Not now. He must concentrate and get this just right.
The eyes. That’s where he always likes to start. Those deep blue eyes, the colour of cornflowers. The secret to getting the perfect shade was to add a touch of red, so that they glowed with an ever so slightly purple tone. And then there was that yellow sunburst around the pupil, bleeding into the blue like the sun sinking into the sea. Always a ray of hope amidst the despair, that was Eva all over.
He likes to imagine, once the eyes are complete, that she’s watching him work. Something about the expression, though. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but she always looks like she’s mocking him rather than admiring him. A wave of rage surges within him, but he takes a deep breath and quashes it. Later, Len, he whispers softly to himself.
Time seems to evaporate while he paints. He enters another realm, one where he transcends this world, floating outside of himself, weaving magic. It brings him closer to her to be in this meditative state, building her from scratch.
He stands back to admire his work. Dear Lord, this time she’s perfect. She’s really here.
It’s time. He takes in every detail of her. The condescending curl of her lip, the smug flush across her cheeks, the lies sparkling in her eyes. And he allows the anger to take hold. Feels his body stiffen and swell as he reaches for the axe.
Now. Now he can kill her. Again.
He swings the axe.
Uncanny. The same flash of fear fills her eyes.
He strokes the canvas. With his eyes closed, and with a gentle enough touch, he can almost convince himself that he is feeling her skin, petal-soft, beneath his fingers. How he misses the feel of her. He can look at photos, listen to recordings, smell her perfume. But the sensation of his skin on hers, that can never be revisited. He swallows the lump in his throat.
In front of him, a meticulously mixed palette of colours – her colours, matched to the exact shade of her eyes, skin, lips and hair – glistens in the hazy garage light. It is as though she is here, all the parts of her, just waiting to be put back together. The thought brings him comfort. She has not gone, not really. Not when she can be re-created again and again, each time a greater likeness. If he just keeps going, perhaps he can conjure her back from the dead. He wields his paintbrush like a magic wand. A super-power, that’s what this is. This artistic gift of his. Dare he say it, he’s a God of sorts, if you really think about it.
She so loved it when he was out here painting. He bristles a little at the thought that she might have relished the time away from him. That maybe that was when she… no, he wouldn’t think of such things. Not now. He must concentrate and get this just right.
The eyes. That’s where he always likes to start. Those deep blue eyes, the colour of cornflowers. The secret to getting the perfect shade was to add a touch of red, so that they glowed with an ever so slightly purple tone. And then there was that yellow sunburst around the pupil, bleeding into the blue like the sun sinking into the sea. Always a ray of hope amidst the despair, that was Eva all over.
He likes to imagine, once the eyes are complete, that she’s watching him work. Something about the expression, though. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but she always looks like she’s mocking him rather than admiring him. A wave of rage surges within him, but he takes a deep breath and quashes it. Later, Len, he whispers softly to himself.
Time seems to evaporate while he paints. He enters another realm, one where he transcends this world, floating outside of himself, weaving magic. It brings him closer to her to be in this meditative state, building her from scratch.
He stands back to admire his work. Dear Lord, this time she’s perfect. She’s really here.
It’s time. He takes in every detail of her. The condescending curl of her lip, the smug flush across her cheeks, the lies sparkling in her eyes. And he allows the anger to take hold. Feels his body stiffen and swell as he reaches for the axe.
Now. Now he can kill her. Again.
He swings the axe.
Uncanny. The same flash of fear fills her eyes.
