Próza - Povídky & Drabbles
He approaches it carefully, like the empty white canvas in front of him is something sacred. He dabs a brush into a color and drives a cautious line, then adds a few more, caressing the canvas with every stroke. Slowly, he starts to create an image – he doesn't need a model, a photograph to go by, no. The features of the man he loved more than anything in the world are burned into his brain forever, he only needs to close his eyes for a moment and he sees him, every delicate curve, every freckle, every strand of hair. He memorized every detail, tracing and re-tracing his face and body again and again with his fingers, his lips, in the countless nights they spent together.
When he's done, he stares at the portrait for long moments, allowing his mind to fish out all the memories he tried to abandon. How beautiful, how beautiful you are, he concludes, reaching out to touch the fresh paint. Then, with a quick intake of breath, he lunges forward and tears the painting from its stand. He throws it against the wall, smearing the colors across the wall until the image on the canvas becomes an indistinct, dirty blur. Then he collapses on the floor, tears of anger and desperation rolling down his cheeks.
Come back, he whimpers, clutching at the broken piece of art.