A Short Story
A blank canvas hung across the wall, crisp and clean. Not a single mark upon its virgin skin. Onlookers begin to gather, flooding the hall, taking their seats and snickering to themselves.
The sound of creaking doors halt their conversations. Silence captures the scene as two figures enter. One of black and the other of white. Both carried themselves with grace as they entered from either side.
“Welcome again,” the dark figure bellowed, turning towards the eager audience, “Life has been created once more and so again we must duel.” Darkness was her name.
Light, the white figure speaks, “Shall we begin?”
Screams and frantic voices erupted from the hospital ward. Light had painted his piece upon the canvas. A child was born. As he continued his strokes, colour and happiness transferred itself onto the painting... and it stopped. The image grew dark and dim. Darkness stepped in. With coarse brush strokes, she silenced the mother’s heart, her rhymic beating, halted.
“Now, now,” Darkness chuckled, “I won’t let you win.”
Both stared into each other’s eyes, willing the other to show a sign of vulnerability, to glance away.
“I will not let this child’s life fall into your hands,” responded Light. “I will keep her safe.”
With grief and pain etched into his eyes, Light smiled at the child he painted. “I promise.”
Light gained the upper hand and painted a happy childhood and school life, warding off any attempts Darkness made to intervene.
He would not allow her to add her mark upon the colour filled canvas.
Darkness kept to herself knowing full well to wait her turn. Or at least the opportune moment to strike. Darkness leapt upon Light and removed the brush from his hands. His magic faded instantly.
“My, how underhanded,” Light shrieked. “Return it at once!”
Darkness said nothing, a sly smile crept upon her lips. Dangling the stolen item inches away from its owner, she snapped the brush in two.
Light collapsed to his knees, his breathing laboured.
“Don’t fret, my dear.” She’ll be safe in my hands,” Darkness smirked and planted his brush upon the canvas. Black surged over colour and the life of the young girl, now a young woman raced into turmoil. Her job failed, she fell into debt and all Light could do was watch.
Darkness lifted her finger, her long bony finger, and tore down the centre of the canvas.
“She ends here,” Darkness teases, “and victory shall be mine.”
The woman in the painting lay in her room. No light managed to pry its way through the curtains. Her eyes glazed over as she pulled a kitchen knife towards her.
Darkness finished her stroke and the woman plunged the cold blade into her flesh. Red streamed from the canvas.
Darkness had won.
The onlookers applauded and left without a word. Their entertainment was over.
“You know, there is no good in this world,” Darkness mused. “This world is trapped in Limbo!”
She removed the painting and carried it to her side of the room. The wall filled with millions of life lines she had conquered.
On the other side, Light’s side, there hung two images.
“Until next time,” Darkness bid her foe adieu.
In a world trapped in darkness. Only darkness can win.
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