I swiftly drug the saturated paintbrush across my canvas, maroon colored paste bleeding itself into the canvas's blank skin.
I tried my hardest to ignore, faze out what I was seeing... But I couldn't faze out who I was seeing.
Once again, as before, as always, it was him.
Several men in white coats in a lab had him pinned down in a hospital bed, injecting his veins with a mud-like liquid as he screamed out in what I imagined was brutal pain.
I could hear it, screams, whispers, cruel laughter of the evil doctors.
Seconds went by with me in the same trance, I counted as his screams faded into groans, his groans fading into whispered panting, panting turning into deadened silence...
One... Two... Three...
He was now unconscious, and afterwards, I was slammed back into quiet, safe reality.
As my eyesite unblurred, I glanced up, noticing my dripping wet with paint canvas.
Whilst I was locked into the private trance of mine, I had painted all that I had seen.
Him, his eyes that held such a dark color of blue they appeared black, his lips that forever curved into a frown, his tightly tied hands held in a rough rope, everything about him was exact.
Except that everything was outlined in deep red paint.
“Knock, knock.” My dear Aunt Margaret chimed, knocking on my open bedroom door. She startled me so that I jumped right out of my chair, sending paintbrushes flying everywhere.
“Well, then,” Aunt Maggie said, laying her hand over her heart. “Iris, my dear, I didn't mean to startle you dead!”
I shook my head, cutting my eyes to the ground in embarrassment at the mess I had made. “No, it's not your fault.” I paused, squating down and beginning to clean up the brushes and paint traces. “I was lost in... Thoughts.”
I heard a pitiful sigh as she sat down beside me, assisting me in now scrubbing the floor. “Was it the visions again?” She asked with a concerned tone.
I gazed up at her, hoping she didn't think I was crazy. But unfortunately for me, she already did.
You see, I had been having these "visions" of mine since 1933, and I was born in 1928.
And it was now 1942.
“Yes, I suppose so.” I said in a shame filled whisper.
Aunt Maggie then stopped cleaning and laid both of her somewhat aged hands on my shoulders, her pure-brown eyes bearing as much sympathy as her full heart carried. “My dear girl,” Her words fell to halt when her stare swept my room and was hung on my most recent painting; the young, tortured man in my mind.
Finally, her stare returned to me along with the rest of her words. “You need help.”
I felt my face crease into a frown, and as I did a slow blink, I saw his eyes.
There lied a frownline between them, agony and terror basking inside them.
I could also hear but barely a weak, tired whisper saying, “Please...”
I gasped, flinching and looking back at Maggie.
“You have never been more wise. ” Said I.
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