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The Portrait

I awoke from a blackout this evening to the sound of a clock’s ticking. The ticks resonate so perfectly in my head. “Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.” 9:45 it read to me. The sun shined on my eyes through the open blinds and I pulled myself up from the floor that was damp with still warm sweat. And upon entering the bathroom, I stood there looking at the mirror. A lifeless face stared hard back at me. Focusing was difficult. Every breath weakened me. I turned on the water but washing the stench away from these hands deemed impossible. I wanted to vomit knowing what I had done but with each day being worse than the last, how was this not for the best? The past couple years have destroyed me, tore me down and skinned off any ounce of sanity I might have had left. After seeing the mess I had created in their room, I kissed my boys goodnight, and confessed how much they meant to me. Teary eyed and shaking, I dragged myself to the living room where I sat alone and admired the crooked old portrait I had nailed to the wall for one last time.

You won't be able to tell now, but it was of a family, a happy family, a loving family. And I would just sit there and drift away around this wondrous portrait we had. So many memories. My wife's death changed me, broke me. And after her passing, I would come to this very spot and just stare at the picture, thinking. Day after day. Enjoying this picture’s company. Her laughter came from this picture. Hearing it was so relaxing. Worry free, not a care in the world. Mind blank, body melting. I became calm. And I didn't feel quite so alone around it. With what was left of my conscious though, could I possibly look at it the same way again? Their joyful faces faded, their bent smiles blurred. This is what we once were and what we will be again.

But before I could finish everything, there was this urge, this itch. I got up and just had to get a closer look at the picture. It was so enticing, so inviting. Like it had something to say to me. And wondering what it could of wanted, I leaned in closer gazing upon it with open eyes. My palms touched the cool glass and I tried muttering out some form of words or another, but I felt choked up. I pushed my cheek against the picture and tried to think of something to say. Moments passed and all that would dribble out was a modest apology. But the picture stared at me with no response. I said it once more and in turn, it just looked at me like I had something to hide while the faint laughter continued. My guilt. My shame. I didn't want to think about it, but I understood. I did the right thing though. I want to be a family again, so how was this not the only option? After confining to it, the only thing the picture could do was taunt both me and my actions. I argued with the damn thing but the laughs just intensified and directed itself upon me. It may have been disappointed in me, but I won't regret what I did.

Maybe these actions were not pure at heart but were my intentions at least? If doing this was in fact for my family, why would they look at me in such a way? Why am I being treated in such a manor that I feel such shades of self-pity? Shouldn't they be happy? Was this burden not placed upon me? But the portrait continued to ignore my calls. It was infuriating. And when it finally confronted me about the smell on my hands, I grabbed the frame and tore it from the wall letting the picture fall helplessly to the ground. Crouching over breathing heavily, I reached out picking up the picture. Cries leaked from it's crinkled edges. It begged me to stop. My eyes widened and my fear swallowed me. Is this what I did to them? Is this what I have become? The sobs became louder and louder as moments passed. I begged for it to quit. I straitened out the picture as smoothly as I could and placed it back on the dustless square that lied upon my wall. Gently putting in the rusty nail that laid on the matching colored carpet. But it didn't help, what's done is done. I understood that. The crying wouldn't stop. It just wouldn't fucking stop. I told my children this was the right thing, that I was doing this for them, for us! I paced back and forth until I couldn't take it anymore. The shrieks were hideous. My ears rung, I felt cornered. And like a wild animal, I punched a hole through the saddened picture leaving my arm halfway through the now crimson painted wall.

Blood dripped from my knuckles. I screamed and yelled at that damn picture but it still wouldn't end. Without hesitation, I once again ripped it from the wall, except this time tearing it apart little by little. With each strip slowly falling it’s way down, I began laughing to myself. I tried blaming the picture for what had happened. Over and over, yelling insult upon insult. I kicked and stomped as I couldn't grasp these feelings any longer. My shouts became more and more obnoxious, just trying to drown out everything around me. I sat down trying to calm myself, snickering to myself, telling myself not to think about the smell, about the blood, about the bodies. Because I did this for us. I know these voices. The picture’s presence was gone, but the cries continued. The only thing going through my ears were the cries and the sound of that hellish begging. Cries I've heard and begging I know. Sitting here, I cradled myself back and forth into tears, continuing to convince myself that what I did was for them, that this is what they wanted. But I knew deep in the back of my head. I knew that those cries, those begs, those screams I've heard clawing at my ears from that retched old portrait, were my those of my darling children and their pleads as they drew their last breaths by my hand. And even though these memories may never leave me. With a pen in one hand and a blood glistened knife in the other, I write my final words knowing with one simple stroke we will all be reunited together again. Forever and always. Eternally and whole.