Your world was different from mine. It had sheen, class, and you sat comfortably in it like a child who was contented, drawn to the colours of the paintings you created with optimism nipping at you. Those paintings brought out your personality more than a human being could, they made you smile, they made you feel alive in a world decaying every minute of every day.

I looked for stability in my life when you had stability in your life already. The days I spent offering my existence to the dark edges, the pitfalls, where I’d sit restless until the next hit buried deep into my soul. A hit of something strong, yeah, something that would disengage me from the mundanity.

Organising myself and the room, I washed my face, scrubbing all the residual blackness and impurities that made me look like a junkie trying to sustain a regular life. I was one, though, trapped in the cycle, prepared to die at any moment, when infused with cut to fuck drugs. It remained in me, the demon, that spirit who carried a hammer to blow my mind and then it would force me to lie down to it, to abide by its rules.

That night I thought of you, draped in dark clothes that went well with my dirty, ash covered hands. The room had this overwhelming stench too, where rotten chicken carcasses from the kitchen gave off an alarming aroma. I didn’t care about sanitation, I didn’t care about the house I stayed in, it could have been a shell of nothingness, a hub of chaos, and I’d still have sat there injecting my tired veins.

Those paintings you designed embraced my mind. They were the only things that made me swerve passed the automatic impulses. When I thought of them, I would smile during my own carnage, piecing together some sort of plan to see them in the flesh again.

I found myself on the street where your exhibition was taken place, an immaculate part of town compared to the dark, unwanted alleyways. A stronghold of people was walking past me, some dressed in elegance, and some dressed in attire that was unconventional. They spoke with posh accents, purifying the air as they sparked conversations, and they looked happy, happier than me anyway.

The glitz and glamour were there to behold, the city with dark secrets was overthrown by gold and diamonds. The exhibition was being held in a hotel, a place where my brand of hopelessness didn’t belong, but I wanted to see you, to see your work, to embrace your cult status.

I walked up the stairs into the room where you stood amidst the fame and fortune, the elites, the unsurmountable riches. You had the same face, you had the same body, you were as perfect as you were back in the days when I was entwined into your world and your ways.

I stood at the back, nervous that you would pluck me out of the crowd and tell me to leave, to ditch the explanation and the apology. Looking around, I felt like a demon amongst angels, amongst the white and the gold, the waves of dynamic people who had it all.

You started your speech, thanking everyone for coming to your night. They were all clustered together, cheering as you end your dialogue. Preparing to showcase your magnum opus, the man you love stands beside you, touching you elegantly. He whispers something in your ear, and then he tells you release the cloth that covers the painting of your career.

The nerves seem to have dissipated, broken down, and your smile is as contagious as it was when we loved our world. The painting was sublime, full of colours and waves of beauty.

And then a noise shuddered in, a bang, a gunshot.

You fell into the arms of that man who held your hands so gently.

The crowd dispersed and the whole room became like a ghost town.

Your fragile body lay there, and as the commotion lifted, the painting was nowhere to be seen. Your work was stolen, your dreams buckled under the weight of evil.

I stood there, shocked by what unfolded. I ran over to you, but you were already gone. The blood began to curdle on the marbled floor.

‘’She’s gone’’

‘’How did this happen?’’

‘’I never saw the man who did it’’

The man who was your lynchpin cried over you.

I felt sick and dizzy, lost in a daze, and emotionally broken.

I only wanted to say congratulations to your success but that was ripped from you.

Mark McConville is a freelance music journalist who has written for many online and print publications. He also likes to write dark fiction and poetry.