Reds, oranges, blacks, and yellows were added with each brush stroke, plopped on the canvas in an almost violent way. A softer-tipped brush soon followed, dispersing and smoothing everything out as the delicate hand attached to the instrument carefully brought it across with a flick and flourish of the wrist, gentle yet surprisingly confident.
The picture coming to life was not a happy one; it depicted a burning red-bricked building, the fire abnormally large and devouring everything its hellish tongues of flame came into contact with. The fire, sporting a rather dark tinge with ruby lighting, embraced the building, its body also finding the time and space to raise up to the Heavens in defiance. The inferno of reds and the nearly consumed bricks that shined served as the main centerpiece, the background dissolving into ink, a halo of light showing off the dark grey before going pitch black.
The final touches were made, the painter’s initials overlapping each other added on the lower right corner, in a place where the frame would hide them.
The painting was done. It looked realistic—far too realistic, really.
The painter’s bright amber eyes gazed deep within, a feeling of worry and grief gripping his heart. For, although small, an odd figure could be seen slightly poking out from behind one of the building’s corners, the fire’s light shining upon it.
An arm laid limply stretched across, a brown head of a boy that had an odd curl looking with dead, light olive green eyes, expression vacant and gone.
The brush, the painter’s most prized possession, slipped through nimble fingers, clattering to the ground, a blotch of silver staining the carpet.
“Fratello . . .” he whispered, tears welling up.
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