shadows-in-color

[shadows-in-color]

Shadows in color

Summary: At least five people died that day. It had been a horrible incident: the kind that you see on the news, but that will never happen to you. For years, the once-celebrated artist Sylvester Steele wished they were one of them.

When they realize that not everything about that day is what it seems, how far will they go to find out the truth?

Previously...

Prologue

Chapter 1 (Red burns, part one)

Now...

Red burns: part 2

For some unexplainable reason, they were back there, living that first day. The environment around them echoed with chatter and other noises typical of a well-lived space, and it seemed to spring alive with speckles of fiery crimson. Sylvester was at a place made for passion of both knowledge and dreams, otherwise known as a university. Standing there, soaking in it, they felt a nervous fluttering in their chest alike the wings of a bird hesitating to take flight. As they stopped in front of the Art Nouveau-style building, with sleep-deprived students passing by their side, they knew that was the first step to finally realize their dream. Every decision they had made would be validated, and every sacrifice -- this would finally make them worthy.

Foster cleared his throat from his place beside them, pulling Sylvester's attention to him. Their little brother smiled cheekily at them, pushing their shoulder with his.

"So... Are you ready?"

Sylvester grinned at him, but still felt their forehead crease in worry. "I need to be."

"Such seriousness is unlike you," Foster chuckled while shaking his head. He looked at the University and then back at the older Steele, his façade loosing some of the amusement as his eyes became shadowed. "Sy, you'll be fine."

"Thanks, Foz," some of the worry vanished away from the artist's shoulders at Foster's encouragement. "Don't be a stranger, okay?"

"You'll be sick of me," Foster promised.

Kind words are hard to come by, but they carry a strength in them. Hearing that made impossible to hold into any semblance of negativity any longer, and though they were not a cure-it-all, the companionship they showed helped Sylvester breathe a little bit easier.

The artist took a deep breath and with the exhale straigthened their shoulders, pushed a stray strand of dark hair behind their ear, and decided to get going.

"Okay."

They turned back to Foster, who still smiled in support. Dimples formed in his cheeks, and his brown hair framed them in a way that was impossible not to feel endeared to. Foster may had been an adult now; but Sylvester was old enough to remember the days when the both of them used to run around the house with laughter following them. Not for the first time, they were glad to have him, to have such a strong relationship that time and dreams and distance could not tear apart. They said nothing of the sort to him, though. There was no need. Foster probably knew them enough to know their feelings by now.

Sylvester did smile, though, and clasped his shoulder gently in gratitute.

"Okay," they repeated. "I need to go now."

"Cheers!" Foster encouraged, holding out his fist. Sylvester bumped it with their own. "I'll be going too, then. I'll see you on Kaonor night, Sy!"

And then he waved without a care in the world, and slowly disappeared down the street. Feeling emboldened again, Sylvester started their way back into the building. They hadn't taken even two steps when they felt something hurl into their side, pushing them heavily into the hard floor.

"Ouch," the artist groaned as they felt the burden of the fall in their left wrist.

They looked around, but discovered it was a person that had crashed into them. They were both now spread in the floor, and Sylvester could see the light of the sun shine brightly around the other's honey blond hair, creating almost a halo. The person winced in pain, and Sylvester noticed their attire was well put together, and well kept. The person clearly had an interest in clothes, and probably was no stranger to money.

"Shit!" The stranger bit out, rubbing their knee. Sylvester could see a big tear in the fabric, and a coppery-red fluid peaking through. Blood.

They looked up, and suddenly, all they could see was blue as they met the stranger's eyes. There was something unusual about them; however, it was not the color itself. An artist knows color. Knows the way it can cause people to cry or laugh, the effect of mixing two or more together to create an armonious masterpiece, or to scare people off as easily as if it were puke on the sidewalk. That shade of blue on their eyes was pretty common. What was not was the intensity shining through it. It was such that Sylvester had only seen it on one other pair of eyes before.

"Sorry!" The person apologized, their tone deep and precise like a surgeons. "I wasn't paying attention!"

"Don't worry about it!" Sylvester grinned.

They stood up, brushing both imaginary and real dirt from their clothes.

"I'm Kay," The other said, reaching out a hand for a shake. "Kay Watson."

Sylvester instantly found them amusing: from the traces of formality in their clothes to the specks of it shinning in their voice. They found they didn't mind as much.

"Sylvester Steele," they introduced themselves.

"Well," Kay said. "It's enchanting to meet you, Sylvester."

"Enchanting," Sylvester repeated cheekily. Oh, the fun they would have with this person's pompous ass!

The look Kay gave him was equally as unamused, almost as if they could hear Sylvester's thoughts as they circled around their head. As if they knew, somehow, how it would all end, as if they felt Sylvester finally start to feel like themselves at long last. However, the more they looked, the more the other's face began to look less like that of a polished gentleman. Kay's face lost all color first, and then, started to slide down like wax from a candle, until not anything even resembling a scream would be able to come out their lips. Until all Sylvester could see were burns etched into muscle and bones.

And that was the moment that Sylvester finally woke up.

It was still dark outside the studio, and the light from the moon shadowed the window frames on the floor. The walls around them, from which once hung a multitude of canvases, now judged empty and ugly in white and darkened by the night. The room was eerie in its quiet as a place could only be during the nighttime. Sylvester sat up in the couch, gingerly rubbing their face with calloused hands. Oh, if only they could forget!

Nothing worthwile had come out of that meeting, so many years ago. Sylvester had had everything, for a moment, and then nothing. Kay, the son-of-a-bitch. Still lethargic from sleep, it was easier to fall back into the all-encompasing feeling that they often cherished at the thought of their old friend. There was a hurt there that still ached ruby red. A pulsing cut that emanated a glow that spurred their heart into beating twice as fast. People like to say that anger is a hazy mind, a senseless feeling both spontaneous and ephemeral, a single moment where they could not account for their actions. But for Sylvester, anger burned steady, a slow fire turning trees into embers.

"You're thinking of him again."

The sound was loud inside the studio if only for the stillness of the night, and Sylvester gasped as they looked for its origin. The air seemed to heat, and it was a parallel to their own emotions. Next to the couch stood a figure shining red: a person with unkept long scarlet hair that flowed like flames; however, Sylvester was more frightened as they looked into the figure's eyes. There were no pupils nor calm to be found. Instead, glowing pools of lava glared at them. The artist tried to speak, but found they couldn't. The figure smiled widely, almost as if they knew of Sylvester's dilemma. The smile was not kind, it was something that could only be found in the darkest depths of a nightmare: crooked, long and unnatural.

The presence let out a roar and its shine grew brighter, like a fire with unlimited fuel. As they did, the windows shattered into pieces, and the walls peeled down as if the paint over them was being burnt down. Sylvester covered their head with their arms, and by the time they looked up again, the figure was gone.

This time, the truth was unavoidable. It was carved into every surface of the trashed studio: the ghost was real.

[shadows-in-color]

[shadows-in-color]

Me: I want to feel happy. I should go out and enjoy the sun.

Also me: *writing a new story*

[shadows-in-color]

Shadows in color

Summary: At least five people died that day. It had been a horrible incident: the kind that you see on the news, but that will never happen to you. For years, the once-celebrated artist Sylvester Steele wished they were one of them.

When they realize that not everything about that day is what it seems, how far will they go to find out the truth?

Previously...

Prologue

Now...

Red burns: part one

Outside the studio, vehicles zoomed from one side to another so fast that the normal passerby could barely distinguish them. The first year after they moved in, Sylvester had covered every window with thick black cardstock, and to this day pieces of it and tape still hung stubborn to the corners. They didn't care much to clean them up, though. A once-famous art studio, it had certainly seen better days: when the floor was covered in paint, light relished in every nook and cranny, and music echoed with every brushtroke. There had been a sort of magic there, once.

It was all in ashes now.

Even so, Sylvester wasn't able to stop. They scooped up the ashes from the floor and achingly brushed them into a new canvas. It was a slow process, but one by one thin and thick brushstrokes began taking shape: in the background, looking yellow threes reached the sky; in the foreground, a single person stood stall amongst the paint, lonely in blue. Sylvester eyed it with a critical mind everytime they stopped to refill their palette with more paint. The painting had a clichéd theme, perhaps; but there was something charming in the compostion. Something that they hadn't been able to find in their recent projects anymore.

The burst of laughter and the smell of humid dirt and trees.

Happy, Sylvester stepped back and gathered every brush stained with paint -- they normally had a 'dirty water' vase where used brushes would rest until they had time to clean them up. They took great care as they shook them around in newly poured solvent, but their eyes kept glancing back at the drying painting. Pride bloomed in Sylvester's chest, and it was a feeling that nowadays was strange with unfamiliarity, though it had once been a close friend.

The painting was good. They were sure of it.

This one would sell.

Sylvester shook the brushes against the air, and placed them back into a vase with the hair to the ceiling. Then, they grabbed the canvas and set it to dry against a corner of the room. Without taking their eyes off it, they sat down on the other side, resting their back against the cold wall. They would wait.

They were burning through whatever savings they'd managed to accomulate before the fire, and most of it was going steadily towards Foster's medical bills anyway. They had to pay rent to keep the studio, and they had already had to leave their flat. If they didn't manage to sell any paintings or score any commissions, they would be out of the place within two months at most.

"Fucking useless," they berated themselves, eyesight still stuck to the drying canvas.

The words fed a spark growing in their belly. It had slight twinges of ruby red, burning its surroundings with ferocity. Silvester glanced at the painting lying on the floor. No artist truly ever considered a project finished -- not one would ever stop noticing each and every flaw hiding within brushstrokes. Most of the work relied on accepting and making peace with them, trying to do better each time. Sylvester was no different, or he had been, in another life.

Now, looking at the splashes of watered-down blue that surrounded thin ochre lines as they created the illusion of far-away flora, they could only see themselves. Rejected and lost. Undeserving of every ounce of hope that their teachers had ever placed in them. Every expectation of their family and themselves, heavy over their shoulders.

The spark grew bigger and bigger, until it glowed scarlet. In an instant, Silvester had stood up, grabbed the canvas, and with a single poignant movement, thrown it across the room.

They screamed, whether in anguish or anger, they would never know. Maybe a bit of both. The noise mixed with the heavy thud of the painting crashing agaisnt the wall, and then as it hit the floor. The wood broke apart and the fabric untensed in a way that was odd-putting, like a piece of dirty laundry forgotten in the floor.

Sylvester burst into laughter, strained and unnerving, even to their own ears. They realized that they too were lying on the floor, every bit of energy they'd had evaporated into the air. They stared at the ruined painting until they realized it wasn't laugher coming out of their chest, but sobs. When fire is hot enough, it appears blue, and as the spark became bigger, traces of it started to peak through.

"That's a shame," they heard a whisper behind them. It sounded like it came from a comm, the sound raspy and short.

"What is?"

Their own voice was tight and wobbly, but they still didn't dare look around. They kept looking at the painting.

"The piece," the person replied. "It was lovely."

Sylvester snorted sarcastically. "Well, then you'd be the only one to think so."

"Would I?"

"Look," they forced out, face still red and wet with tears and snot. They were the most attractive crier ever. "This is not the best moment for me, but if you could come later..."

Their voice trailed off, almost like turning the volume down on a song. Mid-sentence, they'd turned around to look at the mysterious speaker, look into their eyes so they would be able to see just how much of a mess they were in (as if the floor covered in debris hadn't been enough). Except...

There had been no one there.

Through dizzyness and trembling limbs, Sylvester stood up from the floor and grabbed a long berry-colored brush from the table. They placed the wooden tip on the opposite end to their body, creating a stupid makeshift weapon. Tiny thuds echoed around the room as Sylvester walked with weariness, accompanyied with a heartbeat that arranged the sounds into a full-on orchestra. Hand in front of them like a cop holding a gun in a procedural drama, Sylvester went through the studio, making sure it was empty. Once they knew they were really alone, they locked the door and pushed the windows closed, let out a breath, and finally, put the brush down.

There was no way that voice had been real. It had only been a hallucination manifested through sleepless nights and stinky breath, Sylvester thought again and again until they could convince themselves of the fact. Then, they crashed into their rackedy couch and fell into a restless sleep.

[shadows-in-color]

Shadows in color

Summary: At least five people died that day. It had been a horrible incident: the kind that you see on the news, but that will never happen to you. For years, the once-celebrated artist Sylvester Steele wished they were one of them.

When they realize that not everything about that day is what it seems, how far will they go to find out the truth?

Prologue

It started like this: When Sylvester had been five years old and painting in shades of yellos and reds, the acrylic stained their hair and clothes. They had held a messy thing in their hands, yet called it a work of art. They were untruthful, of course, if only to themselves. It was a hideous piece with no form or shape, the kind that an artist such as Picasso or Pollock would cringe at in shame. But it was Sylvester's, and they were young, and in their eyes it had been perfect.

It had been hard to feel any kind of shame back in those years. It used to slide down their back, drifting away heavy with gravity. Like taking a shower, they cleaned up and life moved on.

When the adults around them asked, they answered around the widest smile in their face:

"You'll see! I'll be an artist when I grow up!"

Of course, they'd laugh like it was the funniest joke. Maybe it had been: the next day Sylvester would swear they would become a famous chef, an engineer... even an astronaut! The list was endless. Maybe the adults had been right to doubt.

It ended like this: Sylvester was twenty-five and had tears streaming down their face like rain. In the water, shades of blue and red lights reflected from the heat source in front of them. Sylvester stood in the middle of pandemonium as the once imposing building colapsed from angry flames.

"What are you saying?" They rasped out, but their voice came out strange.

Often, when they were on their way home, they would talk to someone on the phone and their voices would gather a tunnel-like quality, as if the person was hidding underneath a mountain of clothes. At that moment, Sylvester heard the same thing happen to their own, and it was an odd sensation. They were right there: this was their own voice. Or maybe... maybe they were actually sinking into the ground, a magnetic ocean floor that pulled at them.

"We are sorry to..."

Sylvester didn't know how to explain it, but for a moment it was as if they took a deep dive into the depths of their mind. It was limbo. It was hell.

At least, at the time it felt like it was.

"Yet, your brother, Foster..." the policeman on the sidewalk continued speaking, seemingly uncaring of Sylvester's mental absence.

The word Foster caught their attention immediatly, pulling Foster back into the real world. It settled around them with the force of snapping rubber, and its loud textures, sounds and pains momentarily threw Sylvester off.

"What about Foster?" They croaked out, fighting against nausea. "Where's my brother?"

"Your brother is fine. He's asking for you."

At least five people died that day. It had been a horrible incident: the kind that you see on the news, but that will never happen to you. There had been a burning building, its windows smashed into sand and shoes and jackets thrown around lifeless on the floor. Canvases and monuments that had whitstood the trials of time and war, now charred black. The papers read: Protest turns violent: gallery burns down.

At least five people died that day. And for years, Sylvester wished they had been one of them.