A Crimson Canvas
The nameless man has finished murdering my parents. His armour of choice – a balaclava, safeguarding his identity like fine crystal. His instrument of choice – a knife. I counted 7 slashes but I know deep down there were many more.
He initiated his onslaught on my mother. A howl of pain vibrated the wood that encompasses me. My scantily open eyes were forced to readjust to the vociferous light which involuntarily seeped through the crack. The crack that has time and time again bestowed me with a glimpse of my mother’s oncoming nurturing presence.
It was at that point that I saw my father’s hand retreating swiftly from the light switch as he turned his head to identify the consternation of the opposite side of the bed. My catatonic state was sustained even as the dark, caliginous figure lacerated my father’s throat. It was as my father grappled his ringent throat, trying to use his hands as a makeshift dam to stop the inevitable flood, that I recognised the juxtaposition of the lustrous blade and the malevolent attire of the nameless man.
Out of the hundreds of pernicious nightmares that have intruded my life over the past few years and made it mandatory for me to sleep here to feel safe, I have not once contemplated the murder of my own parents. This bewilders me to some extent: that my own insufferable demise has become somewhat periodic and my brain has yet to venture to the death of someone I hold dearly. Maybe that is something I should be grateful for.
He remained motionless for a long time after. The protracted silence hurt. I think he was admiring his finished piece. This theory was confirmed as his camera shutter echoed through the room.
The room that has now obstinately grown into a melancholy crimson canvas. His crimson canvas.
I abruptly remember that I must not exhale too hard, I must not move, I must not cry. But yet all I itch for is to breathe aloud, stretch my legs and sob for this unendurable loss. He must think I am with a relative or on a school trip. Or maybe he knows that I reside within the house? He hasn’t shown any sign of angst or apprehension that you would expect if a foreign presence was suspected.
I don’t know how long since my mother and father took their last impoverished breath. Time does not feel linear in here, it feels untrustworthy, deceitful.
My time in here tonight has made me recognise that, if not for my heinous dreams, I would be a supplementary crimson canvas. His supplementary crimson canvas.
A wardrobe that has always felt like a refuge from my wondering mind, has today become a palpable refuge from the monster who I now examine through the ajar wardrobe door. He is currently situated on my father’s wicker chair.
His eyes look satisfied.
Maybe he will leave soon.
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