A new flash fiction piece for this week. Hope you enjoy reading it. 🙂
Every step I take is painful. Cold has invaded my bones and my blood and I have spent more nights on the street than I can count.
I remember the art. The wondrous brush strokes of fantastic colors on the canvas that thrilled me, and swept me away as I created masterpieces with my hands and heart. Magic possessed me and I poured my soul into the beauty I envisioned while the bottle assisted me with my efforts. Galleries revered me, and I could have had everything any man could want.
I barely remember when the contents of the bottle consumed me more than my love of beauty, and art. Family and fine things lost so easily. Falling came more easily than I’d even realized and my life vanished so quickly. The visions invade my thoughts and torture me, remembering a distant past.
The wind whips at my face and the weather has turned to minus temperatures. Icy sidewalks and snowy alleyways make finding warm accommodations for the night impossible.
My gloves would not keep an artist’s hands warm. The blisters on my feet torture me as press forward looking for that light at the end of the tunnel, which evades me. The path back to a time before the nightmare began is nowhere in sight.
I curl up in the alleyway behind a dumpster where the wind cannot reach me, a plastic tarp for shelter.
My mind travels to a warm place where I’m never hungry or cold again. I long to hold my favorite brush in my hands, sweep my hand over the rough canvas sketching out a picture in my mind, and feel the smooth colorful paints, which filled my world with warmth, but my fingers are curved and no longer capable of holding even a simple cup of coffee.
I can no longer feel the cold, nor do I hear the sounds of people and vehicles from the nearby streets.
I reach into the air, painting brush strokes on an invisible canvas.
I smile and shut my eyes for the last time.