We all know the feeling, it's frightenin' sometimes
The paintbrush fell to the concrete with a clatter. Shaking fingers tangled in his hair, leaving streaks of red behind. He doubled over, resting his forehead against his knee, eyes squeezed shut. His hands clenched, pulling strands free, but he failed to notice.
After a few timeless moments, he sat up, raking his hair away from his face. He looked up at the canvas, stretched over its frame, innocent and blank except for the violent red gash trailing from corner to corner. Dripping paint, still wet in the humid spring air. His eyes traced the line from top to bottom and back several times. He pulled his hands out of his hair and let them dangle in the space between his knees.
They were stained with red. Just paint. Pigment, binder, and solvent. Metaphorically speaking, it was blood. The blood of a man who was as far from innocent as anyone could possibly be, but a human life nonetheless.
The man lived. As far as Marcus knew, anyway. He had left the hunter in a sorry state. Beaten, bloody, drunk, in the rain. He might have simply died.
But the stains were still there. Marcus knew a monster lived inside him. Something that knew how to kill, something that knew how to protect its territory. The two had lived in harmony for over a decade, but the time was rapidly approaching when Marcus would have to become a killer.
Some might think that the taking of a life in self defense was acceptable. Not him. With a gun to the head of someone he loved, he would cross the final line, he would kill to protect his people, but he knew he would break.
He'd almost crossed that line. It would have been so easy. Cut off the air. Snap the neck. Bash the brains against a rock.
With an exhale, he leaned over to pick up the brush. He sat back, twirling it in his fingers, watching the glistening red on its tip. He closed his fist around the handle, snapping it. Disgusted, he tossed it to the ground and rose from his lawn chair. He really needed to stop dwelling.
Hands in his pockets, he headed down the hillside. He should go back, be with the others. But all he wanted was solitude. That's all he'd ever wanted. Funny how things change.
He'd go back sooner or later, but for now, he needed to walk.
After a few timeless moments, he sat up, raking his hair away from his face. He looked up at the canvas, stretched over its frame, innocent and blank except for the violent red gash trailing from corner to corner. Dripping paint, still wet in the humid spring air. His eyes traced the line from top to bottom and back several times. He pulled his hands out of his hair and let them dangle in the space between his knees.
They were stained with red. Just paint. Pigment, binder, and solvent. Metaphorically speaking, it was blood. The blood of a man who was as far from innocent as anyone could possibly be, but a human life nonetheless.
The man lived. As far as Marcus knew, anyway. He had left the hunter in a sorry state. Beaten, bloody, drunk, in the rain. He might have simply died.
But the stains were still there. Marcus knew a monster lived inside him. Something that knew how to kill, something that knew how to protect its territory. The two had lived in harmony for over a decade, but the time was rapidly approaching when Marcus would have to become a killer.
Some might think that the taking of a life in self defense was acceptable. Not him. With a gun to the head of someone he loved, he would cross the final line, he would kill to protect his people, but he knew he would break.
He'd almost crossed that line. It would have been so easy. Cut off the air. Snap the neck. Bash the brains against a rock.
With an exhale, he leaned over to pick up the brush. He sat back, twirling it in his fingers, watching the glistening red on its tip. He closed his fist around the handle, snapping it. Disgusted, he tossed it to the ground and rose from his lawn chair. He really needed to stop dwelling.
Hands in his pockets, he headed down the hillside. He should go back, be with the others. But all he wanted was solitude. That's all he'd ever wanted. Funny how things change.
He'd go back sooner or later, but for now, he needed to walk.