I remember when I used to draw. I did have a talent, before the Doughboys came, leeching the power off for their own uses.
But I have a new talent now. A better one, that helps more than drawing ever could.
A fresh canvas is on the wall, now.
I try to imagine what I will do with this one. The potential of a blank sheet of paper, it could become anything, a masterpiece,
a failure. It is not for me to know, now. I must do everything I can to make this a masterpiece.
The canvas sobs. They
always do. They don’t appreciate what I do. Turning a failed work into something better. I know a failed work when I
see it. And there seems to be more shit than sunshine walking about now. I have to get rid of it. At least the ones that can’t
leave me alone.
The canvas is still sobbing, the ruined work begging not to be fixed. The crying crescendos as I pick up
my pencil. I like this one. It’s long, sharp. It’s fixed many ruined works in it’s time.
I hear a voice,
in my head. It’s Eff. He’s egging me on. He says that I’m good. He says I can draw, still, the same way
I always could. I know he’s not right, I’m not nearly as good as I was. He says at least I’m still good
enough to fix something screwed up this bad. And he’s right.
Besides, I need the blood.
I start working. Cherry
blood runs down to the floor, into the grate there. When I first started, I wasn’t good at keeping the blood. It would
spurt everywhere, I’d lose most of it. Not anymore. I hardly ever spill a drop now.
The flow begins to ebb. The river
turns into a stream. A trickle. And finally only the steady drip-drip of a leaky faucet.
It is no longer a simple sheet
of paper that looks out at me now. It is a woman. A woman’s body, at least. Her skin is deathly white.