Into The Lion's Mouth

The rain had picked up, pouring down like it was the last night on earth, like the apocalypse had come to swallow everything whole. The sound of the angel’s trumpets could almost be heard over the splattering droplets, the gray moon on the verge of turning to black. Something was coming, something was very much its way, to devour the world or to let the world devour it.

Lucius stood under the awning of his building, peering down both directions of the street. His cellphone dinged in his right pocket, checking it showed a text from Kenzo:

‘Hey man, just wanted to check in and see how ur doing. Not sure if ur up rn but I can’t sleep. I was thinking tmrw we could go see a movie, theres that new one out u were talking about. Lmk! Anyways, u know I’m always here for you. Goodnight Lucius.’

For a split second the idea crossed his mind that he should go back inside and get some sleep. That tomorrow everything would be okay. But it wouldn’t, he knew it wouldn’t. He switched his phone off, and without looking back, threw on his hood and sprinted towards the gallery. He reached the concrete steps in no time, the massive structure lying in wait. The moon positioned itself directly above him, shining down a spotlight onto his destiny. Solid concrete pillars held up the the protruding ceiling that overhung the outside foyer, a visually impossible feat, yet like Atlus holding up the world, they managed to maintain their position. The glass windows covering the front of the gallery reflected all, the cleanliness and filth, the benevolent and malevolent, the light and the dark. Concrete bars were fitted up the entire building, placed in exact unison to uphold symmetry, displaying the poignant touch of human design. A place that looked so cold and barren had never before seemed so inviting.

Tapping his key card and revolving through the sliding doors, he made his way through the lobby and towards the oak staircase. Stepping into the foyer, the staircase wrapped the ceiling like a descending ribbon frozen in time. It swirled like a serpent, the only way to the top floor being the path right through the belly and jaws of the beast. The tan wood felt smooth under his skin, every groove expertly sanded and glossed. Following the grooves was like writing calligraphy in a language he didn’t know, finding pieces he recognized but the big picture being indecipherable and lost.

As he reached the top floor, the devil on his shoulder spoke to him again once again, telling him to turn back, that nothing good would come from up ahead, that he could just go home and count sheep until he drifted off to wonderland. Lucius kept walking forward. The entrance remained just as it did before, untouched and undisturbed from any presence besides his own. The empty unfinished room looked exactly the same, but to Lucius it was if he was viewing it through a new pair of eyes. He had never noticed the beauty of the gray, the quiet from the noise in his head. Between the cold walls, he felt as warm as he used to in his mothers arms.

There in the centre of the room, the painted canvas called out to him, a gravitational force dragging him in closer and closer, no eyes having been laid on its delicate detail besides his own. The monotoned background far off in the distance, the gray trunk that lead up towards a sprawl of hanging branches, and in the centre of the tree, the gash that had produced the singular drop of red. It’s crimson path down the tree and its final destination splattered on the concrete floor remained just as it was left, as if it was put there just a second before.

Lucius raised his right hand towards the canvas and brushed down the path that the tear had made, feeling the still wet red paint beneath his fingers. Viewing the residue left on him, it was more clear than ever what needed to be done. Reaching into his inside jacket pocket, he procured a familiar bladed object. The spear point knife glistened just like it did the night it was used to murder his parents, the night his actions led to the death of those he loved. He gripped it tightly in his left hand, and took the blade to the tip of his index finger, slicing a vertical line down a quarter of the way. Blood immediately swelled out from the cut and coated the tip of his finger. Lucius brought the key right up the the canvas, right to the diagonal incision on the base of the tree, and pressed up against the paint.

As he held his finger there, another drop of red began to cascade down the trunk of the tree and pool on the concrete floor. A few drops led to a few more, until a continuous stream of red began to paint down the canvas, flooding the base of the easel, out from the tree itself. The red continued to pour as Lucius’s finger began 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. At last, Lucius was gone, transported to another world. All that remained of his presence was the knife, dropped from his grasp, left outlined in red on the cold floor.