The red on the canvas is disturbing, almost too much like blood. Thick, wet streaks, dripping just enough to make anyone question whether it's paint at all.
This is nothing new for me—painting something that feels so damn wrong. Chaos and blood smeared across a blank space, screaming with no mouth.
I can't help myself. The brush moves, and suddenly, it's not art anymore. It's a mess. A disaster that somehow looks alive.
I look at my dirty, trembling hands, smudged with every color I could find. Red, black, streaks of yellow—hell, I don't even know what the hell's on me anymore.
Then, just like that, a sharp pain hits my skull, like a fist slamming inside my brain. My eyes burn as last night's visions flood back.
The faces.
The screams.
The blood.
I can't escape it.
I close my eyes, trying to shove the pain away, pressing my hands against my skull like I can squeeze the madness out. But nothing works.
Those glowing red eyes in the darkness—they're still there. Watching. Mocking. Like they know I'm broken, like they're waiting. They growl at me, low and vicious. They're hungry. Hungry for me.
I'm going to go crazy. I can't breathe as the eyes burn into me and the snarling gets louder. I feel like I'm getting completely devoured. I'm on the verge of collapsing as my head splits, and then—bang—a loud tap on the door. My heart leaps from my chest.
"Hey, are you there?" The voice is loud but familiar. It makes no difference. Nothing is important. Aside from the person beyond that door.
Zabel. She doesn't wait for a response, of course, she doesn't. Just slams the door open like it's her damn house. "What the hell, are you—" She stops mid-sentence, eyes locking onto me. Doesn't matter though. She just shakes her head, lips pressed tight.
Her steps get quicker, frantic almost. The paint splatters, the trash, the goddamn chaos. It's not new. She doesn't need to ask. She knows what happened. She knows it's the same thing that's happened a hundred times before. The same nightmare, the same breakdown. She's seen it all, heard it all, and still... still, she stays. Doesn't ask. Doesn't expect answers. Because she knows there aren't any.
She crosses her arms, a tight frown pulling at her lips as she looks me up and down. "Those creepy visions again?" She asks in a tone that combines frustration with another emotion, maybe worry or the desire to give up. She narrows her eyes and scans the room as if it were all too common, not even waiting for me to answer.
Her sharp gray eyes land on me again, and she raises an eyebrow, like she's daring me to say something. She tilts her head, waiting for some kind of answer, but not really expecting one. "You've got to snap out of it, or this is gonna be the thing that breaks you."
The irony hits me like a punch to the gut.
It's pathetic, really. She's looking at me like she wants to fix something that's already in pieces, but there's no fixing this. Not anymore.
"If you've got anything important to say, then say it," I say, focusing hard on the canvas. My hands tremble. I try to steady them, but the brush slips, dragging streaks of color where they don't belong. I bite my lip, frustrated, but still... it's hard to focus. I can't shake the damn shaking.
Without warning, she snatches the brush from my hand, holding it high above her head, her face twisted in irritation. I stare at her, equally pissed off. "Why can't you just let me be?"
She scoffs, shaking her head like I've just said the dumbest thing imaginable. "Let you be? I've let you be before, Ivelle, and look where that's gotten you, right back in this mess."
Her eyes dart to the canvas, narrowing as if she's already figured out what I'm trying to paint. Her lips press into a thin line before she sighs, exasperated. "Stop it, Ivelle," her voice sharper now. "Stop painting whatever it is you see when you close your eyes. You know it's not worth it. It's not helping anymore! It's just... dragging you down."
She steps back, the brush still in her hand, like she's afraid I'll snatch it back and keep drowning myself in this madness. She looks at me, almost pleading now. She's tired of fighting this battle for me.
But I've never wanted her to fight for me. Never wanted her to drag herself down, to damage her own reputation just because I can't get my act together. She doesn't deserve this—doesn't deserve to keep pulling me out of my own problems when I don't even want to fight for myself.
Maybe that's the cruelest irony of all. In this hell I've built for myself, I'm lucky enough to have someone like her. A friend who refuses to let go, even when I've already let go of everything.
I stand up, the room spinning slightly as another wave of pain hits my head, blurring my vision and making my knees buckle. I lose my balance for a second, but before I can even think about falling, Zabel's hand is on my arm, steadying me. "Easy."
I don't look at her, not wanting to see that look of pity in her eyes. I can feel her hold me, but it only makes the pressure in my head worse. "I'm fine," It's a lie..
She sighs, but doesn't say a thing. She's not stupid. She's seen the way my words don't match the way I'm falling apart, how my whole body is screaming something's wrong, even if my mouth isn't. But she doesn't push it. Not yet.
Zabel finally speaks. "Clean yourself up and rest," she says, like it's an order I can't ignore. "You can't fake your illness tonight, you know that. The king has strictly told everyone to be present." I barely hear her anymore. The king's orders ring in my head, cold and suffocating, like a noose tightening around my neck.
Clean up. Rest. Fake it.
The headache sharpens in protest. The king's orders are not something to mess with. I've seen what happens when someone doesn't show up. The way he'll make an example out of them, like it's some kind of game.
He just wants bodies. He wants people, a show. And I'll be there, of course. Because I have to. Because that's how it always goes. The rest doesn't matter.
With my eyes aching, I push myself towards the washroom. I make it to the mirror, and for a second, I don't even recognize myself. The person staring back is a stranger. Eyes lifeless, like they've seen too much and now they're just... empty. My bones feel like they're ready to break through my skin, pale and sickly, like a corpse. It's disgusting. Ugly.
I splash cold water on my face, the shock of it slapping me awake. I rub my face, trying to scrub away the tiredness, the fear, but nothing changes. It's still me. Just me. A loser.
Just a few hours. A few hours of pretending to give a damn about some stupid banquet, celebrating a stupid win in a stupid war. Then I'm done. Done with all of this.
Just need to survive the night, and I can collapse.