“And?”
“You’re painting what you’re seeing, not what you’re hearing. Or what you’re feeling.”
“No shit. I can’t exactly paint sound or feelings.”
“Art shouldn’t always be literal,” I explained, reaching out for her paintbrush. “May I?”
“Sure, but don’t mansplain,” she mumbled, “it’s not very saintly.”
Rolling my eyes, I dipped the brush in white, and added some light to the black vastness that stared back at me, the colour hauntingly similar to the black eyes of my reflection smiling in the mirror.
I outlined faces, ones you might mistake for a whiff of smoke or a distortion of light if you weren’t paying attention. They wore smiles of razor-sharp teeth, their laughter flowing through the darkness as they danced along the artwork. A once empty canvas, now a nightmare.
Look at you, little monster.
Ava followed my every movement, stepping closer as her nightmare slowly came to life.
Wicked laughter waltzed all around us, darkness seeping in through the windows, pouring over us like cans of black paint. When I finished, she asked, “You’re an artist?”
I stepped back, admiring the hideous creation like Frankenstein did his monster.
You are an artist,the Devil confirmed, the black ink bleeding red,and you paint with blood.
***
Ava was there the next day, a blood red apple in one hand and a thin paint brush in the other as she bent over her workbook. Her tangled earphones lay abandoned beside her pencil case, crumpled papers littering the desk.
I walked toward her slowly, sneaking a glance at the water colour paint she applied to a sketched dragon. She flinched when I dumped myself into the seat across from her, my school bag crashing to the floor.
“You know, this is usually where I spend my timealone,” she said as a greeting.
“I didn’t see a sign on the door saying no entry,” I said.
“I’m not complaining,” she shrugged, “but…why are you here?”
I pulled out a cheese and bacon roll freshly baked by Mrs Brighton, still warm thanks to my insulated lunch box. “I don’t really have anywhere else to go,” I admitted.
“Huh, so you haven’t made any friends yet?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“We can be friends, if you want.”
That is suspicious. Why would she want to be our friend? She barely knows us.
“Why?” I asked.
“Why what?”
“Why would you want to be my friend?”
Ava arched an eyebrow. “I don’t know. You helped me with my art yesterday. Seems like we got that in common. Art, I mean.”
You can’t afford to have friends. If you let them get too close, they’ll know.
“I…don’t really have much experience…being a friend,” I admitted.
“Well, you’re in luck, because no experience is required for this role. We can just chill.”
