The painter beheld what they had made. 'I don't understand it,' they mutter to themselves. Panic clutches at their chest as they drink in the monstrosity they don't remember making. There's something dark about it. Insidious.
They take a match to the canvas and burn it, almost taking the tiny apartment with it.
When they return from the hospital, they behold the charred walls of their home. And see in the darkness, a greater dark of needling familiarity.
Paddy Dobson
18th March 2023