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I had awoken with a sheer cold sweat; the night had been a long and sleepless one. A storm had raged outside and due to it I could not sleep, I got out of my, as I liked to call it brutal bed. The bed alone was scattered with half eaten foods, and cups. The only reason and scapegoat I have for this is because I live alone, with usually no one to accompany me either, due to that fact I haven’t even bothered with cleaning up – who would care anyway? I couldn’t bear the feel of the hot bed and got up, I slowly made my way to the one spot I spent my time at least 5 hours a day. I opened the door, it had slowly creaked, I checked the closets, and behind the door for anyone, I have learned to never trust anyone or thing for that matter. The room was small, only fitting a small coffee table and a sofa, in front of the coffee table lay a painting. I had treasured the painting for all my life, I had toiled and even killed for it, it was my soul and heart.
I slowly whispered “And so I am here again, pondering.”
“And it’s good to see you,” replied the painting.
I looked at the painting in an awkward way. “Say again?”
“I’m sure you heard me, and I know of your presence”.
I walked towards the painting until I was just barely a meter apart,
“You can talk?”
“I’ve always been able to, but I’ve kept my words to myself until now. My, my, it’s quite sickening, what you’ve done here.”
I grimaced at the fact that my painting, my most favorite painting, was mocking the room that I had spent so much money on, a room especially made for itself. Composing myself, I cautiously asked, “Fine. What can I do for you to make this room better?”
My eyes flashed wide open as if I was a cat. “Excuse me?”
“Burn everything, the room, the sofa, the table.”
Then, as if the painting itself had grinned slyly, it said, “And me”.
I was shaken I was leaning heavily from foot to foot pondering if I should let a painting tell me what to do and whether I could destroy this room or not.
“You must. Your will has been broken, and you shall do everything I order you to,” it said wickedly.
“I can’t!” I cried frantically.
“Do it!” the painting ordered, this time, his voice laced with more aggression.
“No…” my voice started getting higher.
“YOU HAVE TO!” It started to shout crazily. The pressure built up and adrenaline coursed through my veins. I couldn’t destroy the painting, and I couldn’t destroy this room. Trying to fight the powerful influence of the painting, I grabbed the letter opener on the table and tore the blunt knife into my arm. The pain, the icy cold sensation grew again and again as I stabbed myself in the gut, and as I stabbed my thigh, I cried in pure agony, but still, a weak smile etched itself along my face. I was beginning to die, I thought, my vision started to fade, but I only smiled, just as I had before, a weak, pain-induced smile.
Seconds before my vision failed, I saw the painting of a heart.