The Painting That Ate All

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“HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

As the clock struck midnight, a brand new year lied ahead. Lucius and Kenzo stood high above the city skyline, the sky adorned with blazes of fireworks and bursts of brilliant glow.

“Cheers and Happy-y New Y-year,” Kenzo ecstatically yelled, shakily raising his empty champagne glass towards Lucius, the abundance of alcohol he’d consumed clearly heard in the cadence of his voice.

“Okay, okay, you’ve had more than enough,” Lucius replied, grabbing his arm and lowering him onto the furniture set on the terrace.

Blaring music and flashing neon lights painted the interior of the suite, the silhouettes of people celebrating the night away leaving shadows on the walls. School classes resumed the following week, but that thought hadn’t entered the minds of anyone in attendance.

“Mmm, I’m good, I’m good,” Kenzo slurred, his eyes trying to decide if they wanted to stay open or closed. “Selina, where’s Selina?”

“Selina went home, remember? I think she’s still upset about yesterday, she just came by to grab her bag and left.”

“I love-e her, tell her I l-l-love her,” Kenzo quietly mumbled, his eyes finally deciding that they wanted to stay shut for a while.

Glancing down at the view from the 60th floor, the passersby on the streets below become indistinguishable from ants. But at Lucius’s eye level, the view of the city horizon lit up the sky like an artificial sunrise.

As the glistening lights from advertisements and occupied apartments bounced off the glass panels from the monstrous skyscrapers, the air was filled with a sense of melancholy.

Regardless of the late hour, Lucius didn’t feel an ounce of exhaustion.

“I’m going out for a bit,” he said to himself more than Kenzo, carefully stepping over passed out bodies and broken bottles. “Don’t wait up for me.”

Entering the marble hallway, stepping out of an elevator was a stoic figure dressed in a tailored black suit, the deep fabric absorbing the light. The man stood tall over Lucius, his golden hair and cleanly shaved face alluding him to the likes of a Roman Emperor.

“Mr. Cavalli, I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight,” Lucius said with surprise.

“Yes Lucius, it is rather late. Where is my son?” Mr. Cavalli unenthusiastically replied.

“Kenzo, he had a bit much…” Lucius trailed off. “I think he fell asleep.”

“Yes, yes, of course. My only son, never failing to make his father proud.”

With an unamused look on his face, Mr. Cavalli walked towards the entrance of the suite. As he placed his cold hand on the golden door knob, he nodded to the windows down the hall.

“Be careful out there, Lucius. Always remember, it’s just you and the world.”

The brightness of the room from the neon lights glazed over him, and he walked into the strobing dusk.

***

The bright lights shining in the elevator from above drew a deep contrast between the dark clothes draped over Lucius’s figure, a yin and yang created upon the reflective walls.

Moving towards the closest mirror and aligning his eyes right up against the glass, he stared into the emerald irises staring back at him, tempting the man in the mirror.

Who are you? he asked himself.

The reflection’s black hair was thick and a little unkempt, a regular gust of wind styling it more often than a comb. Dark brows sat low over his crystalline eyes. There was a tiredness in his face that had been there long before the party, something a night’s rest would not be enough to reverse, a tension just beneath the surface. A low, constant hum.

I am you, the reflection replied.

The elevator doors opened, leading out towards the dispersed street. But from here, the street looked bleak, a drastic change from the view up above.

How could the picture look so perfect from far away, but tragic up close? It’s like an incomplete painting, the details are only seen unfinished when right in front of me.

The dim streets were barren, the only remembrance of living life shown through the trash left behind. Kenzo’s building was located in the heart of the city, the iris of the city’s eye. The streets were lined with variations of concrete, wood, and stone, all amalgamated to mimic the appearance of structure. Hollow bodies with only a face.

The cool breeze of January nipped at the back of his neck, but it was welcomed, chilling the warmth leftover from a night of partying.

I’ll let the breeze guide my way.

The wind took him up on his offer, steering him through fog and smoke, a descent into the city’s soul. Neon lights, critters peaking through the dark, bags of filth left to rot on the side of the road. A painted landscape of trash and grime.

These parties, these long nights, it’s all so meaningless. I don’t know how Kenzo lives like this. Or maybe, it’s me. Maybe I’m the problem. I’ve made a habit of turning my neck. Looking back to the past, moments I wish would last forever. Moments I wish I could erase completely. I watch the people around me glorifying their lives, being happy in the places they find themselves. I wonder if I’ll ever find that kind of happiness.

The streets seemed darker than he remembered, his own desolation seeming to take a toll on his surroundings.

Maybe it’s because I’ve barely left my room in a while. Maybe it's because I haven’t talked to anyone new in a while. Or maybe it’ll always be this way.

The crescent moon high above in the night sky seemed so far out of reach. In the dead of night, the pale apparition looked so delicate, like it could be shattered in the palm of his hand.

I wish I actually did something with my life, because to be honest, this winter break blew past my head, and I’m still where I’ve always been.

Unconsciously, he was walking down a familiar street, getting closer to a familiar alley. Its darkness called out, drifting his attention away from his thoughts and to the memories of the past, evoking banished segments he wished he’d forgotten.

Dammit, I meant to avoid this route. I always do, I never walk past here…how did I miss it this time? 10 years, the anniversary’s already coming up in a few days. 10 years of nothing but mistakes. And it still feels like it all happened yesterday.

Speeding up his pace, his midnight voyage down the vacant streets led him away from what he wanted to avoid, and guided him to the steps of a new adversary, but an accepted one.

From the street, the Gallery of Fine Arts rose like a paradox, combinations of modern and ancient designs molded together. Its sweeping glass face curved outward in a reflective wave, capturing distorted fragments in its image. Behind it, the building’s older bones still showed through, the remnants of yesterday longing to be remembered.

Cutting through the concrete arches lining the entrance, he tapped his all access key card and entered the amber hallway. Many exhibits were on display for public presentation multiple times a year, with rapid switch ups in order to keep interest alive, the labyrinthian corridors filled wall to wall with precious relics of humanity, examples of human determination.

Okay wind, I’m here. Let’s see if letting you lead was a good idea.

A beautiful bamboo and oak spiral staircase centered the main hall, the ambient lighting from the cathedral ceiling casting caricatured shadows around the room.

He was unsure what had drawn him to the gallery in the first place, but he felt compelled to continue exploring. There were no other pressing matters at the moment anyways. Every step he took echoed faintly, his presence the only living abstraction, and as he walked, the sense of movement slowed.

At the end of the dimly lit hall, he reached an unfinished section of the gallery under construction. Clear plastic hung over the opening of the area, and the rough textures within could be seen through the transparent material.

This…wasn’t here last time, was it? I was just here a few days ago, they would’ve told me if they were doing renovations.

Amidst the empty concrete walls and floors, an ashen atmosphere suffocated the air as if a bomb packed with cinder had gone off in the room. The room was half formed, caught in between destruction and creation. Exposed beams stretched across the ceiling like ribs, while wires dangled loosely in the dusty air. The walls had been stripped down to bare studs, awaiting drywall and layers of paint, and the floor was a patchwork of old concrete and scattered plywood, cluttered with discarded nails.

As Lucius’s eyes adjusted to the stark dimness, he noticed an incongruous object propped up in the middle of the room. There, in the centre of the shadowed room, was a painted canvas displayed on a wooden easel.

This can’t be right. No one would leave a valuable painting in a dirty room like this.

Taking a closer look, the painting depicted a singular willow tree amidst a desolate landscape of whites and grays, with a silhouetted twisted mountain peak far off in the background. The tree rose high, its twisted branches extending from all sides and its gray trunk formed a solid base to carry the weight of its shoulders. No greenery or life was visible anywhere on the tree, its wooden carcass appearing as lifeless as a graveyard. Wisps of foliage hung down from the decaying branches, as if wanting to stay accurate to the weeping mantra.

Even the imagery…it’s so weird.

He quietly inched up to the canvas, acting cautious as if the tree would hear him and spring to life. The painting’s details appeared even more deliberate up close, its dead flesh engraved with years of gentle decay, a lasting impression left upon its surface.

He felt drawn to it, compelled to see all it had to offer.

A diagonal gash ran sharply down the centre point of the tree, imitating an open wound left behind from an incomplete heart surgery. The gash was darker than the surrounding wood, endless and infinite, a constant void into the cavern of the tree’s soul.

As Lucius examined the painted wound, he watched as a single crimson tear tore through the painted world, cascading down from the opening. The droplet followed the grooves of the tree, continuing down the painting and landing as a drop of red, stained against the concrete floor.

Lucius raised his right hand towards the canvas and brushed down the path that the tear had made.

This colour looks off, the pigment and texture just doesn’t feel like normal paint. Maybe it’s an oil acrylic hybrid?

He reached down to examine the droplet that landed on the floor. Brushing his finger against the rough floor in the dimly lit room, his eyes missed the jagged shard of shattered glass.

“Aggh!”

Blood immediately swelled out from the cut and coated the tip of his finger, his own blood mixing with that off the tree.

The separate liquids pooled around each other on his skin, twirling in a slow dance that looked hypnotic. The reds pulsed with energy, burning softly against his flesh, the little droplets hungry for more.

Lucius brought his hand right up the canvas, right up to the diagonal incision on the base of the tree.

I wonder…

As he pressed his finger down against the painted trunk, another drop of red began to cascade down the trunk of the tree and pool on the concrete floor. The drops became a flow, until a continuous stream began to paint down the canvas, flooding the base of the easel.

This is crazy this is so so crazy…

The red continued to pour as Lucius’s finger started to pass through the barrier of the painting, entering the portrait beyond.

The palm of his hand, his wrist, his forearm, the painting continued to swallow his body. Descending him deeper into the depths of the painted canvas, the words he tried to get out were eaten by the void.

The quiet returned to the empty room, and all that remained of Lucius’s interference was the shard of glass, outlined in red on the cold, cracked floor.