[ IP ] Tell me the story behind this painting .

It was hard to hold the picture in my head now. What I wanted - a simple thing. Was it coming, had it already happened? Was it mine, or did I dream it, did I steal it? 
 
 *Am I the man? The woman? The other? * 
 
 It was hard to hold the picture in my head. 
 
 I pushed away from tripod of shattered colors and went to the window, flung open as much for the valley breeze as for the morning sun. There was no one for miles now. The last of my money had gone to this place, this simple cabin tucked in the Appalachians. No more money, unless this painting sold. 
 
 This? 
 
 I looked back to the room. Dozens of paintings. Slanted against walls, slid under the bed, stacked atop one another. When had they become the same? The same man, the same woman. The same rain. The same fractured dream. 
 
 I turned back to the window, and closed the shutters. I pulled the curtains and stepped back into the darkness. Voices fluttered in through the window. Not voices on the breeze, but voices on the light. Dancing whispers on golden motes. They spidered through the aged cracks of my skin, slid through my lips, burrowed into my ears. 
 
 * ” -coffee with Jennifer at 3- ” * 
 
 * ” -with Dave and me to watch the World Seri- ” * 
 
 * ” -good boy, who's a good boy- ” * 
 
 * ” It ’ s so quiet out here. ” * 
 
 I sank to my knees against the bed and fumbled Glenfiddich from beneath the covers. I traded the taste of salty tears for sweet, honeyed fire. Even out here now, I heard them. The city was hours away, the towns, the camp sites. Where else could I go? Where was more desolate, more abandoned by the minds of men? 
 
 I could weep to be alone. 
 
 But I would never be alone. 
 
 **Early morning, the third of September, John Richmond, his wife Eleanor Richmond, and their son, Elijah -** 
 
 Sweet, honeyed fire. 
 
 I wiped my lips with the sleeve of my shirt and stood, corking the bottle and dropping it back onto the sweat stained sheets, rough linen soiled with insomnia and self-pity. 
 
 **The mugger yet to be apprehended-** 
 
 I realized the oils were back in my hand, the canvas, the stool, all back in place. I could see only by the light that slipped through architectural imperfections, but I knew the strokes by rote now, by instinct. 
 
 **-died immediately. Mr. Richmond was rushed to -** 
 
 Did I even finish the other painting? 
 
 **-bullet was lodged at the base of the skull... brain damage... ** 
 
 It must have been *his* eyes. Whiskey shaken, meth shattered eyes. A world of fire and water. 
 
 ** “ You ’ ll live, Mr. Richmond, but let us know if you have any... complications. ” ** 
 
 **- still searching for the killer -** 
 
 So many voices. So many dreams. *God must hear fewer prayers than I. * 
 
 Why couldn ’ t I paint her face? I didn ’ t even know mine, now. But why this scene? Over and over. It must have been his eyes. When I threw down the brush and the oils, I let my head sag against my chest. My hands trembled, from exhaustion or hunger, I couldn ’ t be sure. 
 
 I took back to the window, and threw open window again, breathed in the new air, felt the cold sting my face and realized I hadn ’ t stopped weeping. The sun was low now, not high. Near dusk, but I could feel the next picture creep through my gut. 
 
 I ’ d have opened my veins, but the first time had only given me more vivid reds to paint with, and pain for days to better keep me awake. 
 
 I turned back to look over the room again, knowing what I ’ d see. But when my eyes fell on the painting, tinged gold in the failing sun, my breath caught. 
 
 A man and a woman walked down a street of rain and lamplight, but where I had painted Elijah a thousand times, there walked handsome black dog. Where I had painted the streets of Jackson, stood haunted buildings that reminded me of New Orleans. 
 
 It must have been his eyes. A world of fire and water. Shattered eyes. Broken skies. 
 
 *It ’ s so quiet out here. * 
 
 **- still searching for the killer-** 
 
 I slid against the wall and cradled my knees against my chest. On the lines of fading light, voices slid into my skull. 
 
 * ” Please, just take the money. ” * 
 
 I slid the palette knife from my pocket, and the taste of tears prickled my tongue. I was going to need more red. 

