//mentions of blood and the slightest of gore at the end//
The canvas has grown worn.
Stained by origins unknown, some parts marked with angered scratches and tears. Layered on top of this ruin, the beautiful juxtaposition of it all, there she sits. Head slightly turned to the viewer, black curls framing her face as she sits at a desk littered with paper. The midnight maiden dons a simple black dress, bathed in the warm glow of a nearby candle. Her face is empty. Featureless.
You pick at the hangnails on your fingers, chewing your cut lip between your teeth. Staring at the painting so long has made your head fuzzy, tunnel vision making the world surrounding you seem more like a memory than a current reality. You have to finish this. When you lift your shaking hand to the canvas, you find that it's already dry. When you caress her lifeless face, it stains her jaw red.
How long has it been?
The midnight maiden gazes out the window across the room, facing away- always away. She looks the same as her painting, illuminated by the oil lamp on the table. You pick up the paintbrush again, dipping it into some fresh oil paint. Just her face remains, why can you never seem to remember it? You know her. Know her more than anything you have ever known.
The contours of her face, the bow of her lip; downturned, a perpetual frown. A mole kissed onto her left cheek, under her eyes black as night. Her eyebrows are slightly furrowed and none of this is right- the paint has dried again and everything is wrong.
Tossing the paintbrush onto the floor, you choke down the sob threatening to erupt from your chest. Everything is wrong.
I have to finish-
Finishing it is an impossible task, love. And you know that.
Forgoing the brush, the oil paint makes no noise as you submerge your fingers in it. The colour doesn't matter anymore, smearing desperate lines onto the canvas, all shaky and lacking purpose. It vaguely resembles a face in the same way that shadows merge into monsters. Some hair escapes your ponytail, so you rip it out.
There's a cold hand on your shoulder. Grip weak yet firm. You ignore it, scratching wildly at the canvas, it's not done yet.
Stop this madness and look at me.
Her voice is miles away, but you can still feel her breath on your ear, Please.
Eyes shut tight. Arm falls limp to your side. Her hand hasn't moved. You have to finish the painting before you forget. The taste of salt in your mouth is a familiar one. The smell of rot invades the air.
You will not look at her, you avoid what you know awaits you behind those eyelids. Sunken cheeks, paled skin. There's a painting to finish, a memory to dig up and cradle in your arms to take to bed. It's such a cold night, isn't it? You must be granted this freedom, surely. There must be some sort of-
Please.
Twisted mimicries are all that these are, it is not real, do not allow it to trick you. There's a cold pressure on your cheek- three, no four, whispers of touch- it's barely there but it's still too much to bear. Those tendrils try to guide you, try to yank your face to the side. You will not look. Eyes squeezed tightly, cowering away into your skull. Push them in deeper. Ignore the horrific squelch, ignore the building pressure, you refuse to submit.
You have a painting to finish.
12 February 2026