Ch2: Delusions and The Like

3rd POV:

Her frail fingers glided across the open canvas elegantly, a brimming smile painted haphazardly upon her blackened lips as an infinity of colours sprawled itself. A slight whistle escaped from between the part in her mouth. It was magnificent, a real work of Da Vinci, if she had to say so herself.

Upon the empty plane were meshes of red and orange, a striking navy blue emphasized through it all. The more the lines connected, the happier she seemed to feel. Warmth. Kindness. Love. Jealousy. Envy. Disgust. Loath. Hate. Hate. Hate, hate hate Hate, HATE HATE...

How familiar the term. She could never place her finger on it, but there was always a nagging painful feeling winding up round her breast that threatened to consume her very being. This happened whenever she thought too much or let the paint flow from her fingers. But as she took a step back from the nonexistent wall she managed to throw her twisted soul upon, the colours were no longer the vibrant primary colours highlighted to neon. No, by this time the vast area she dragged her palm over became oozing with a bloodied blackish red, humanoid parts manifesting and slooshing towards the ground with splashing thuds.

Now what in the world could these be? Who could they belong to, now?

A few steps backwards and she was back to where the unknown created itself. The objects were foreign, painted a pretty pink with a deep red surrounding them. They were shiny and squishy looking, smelt of iron and stained the ground like paint brushes. How curious.

The porcelain girl extended her own ink-dripping fingers to the thing, watching as every colour she'd ever seen mix with the crimson expanding on the blank ground. Blues became purple and greens became brown, becoming a swirling pattern as the inks mixed. And as she did touch it, she became utterly delighted to see her presumptions were spot on, and that if she put just the slightest amount of pressure on it, they would bounce back up or excrete their juices. And then turn black.

Her ink seeped into the strange. The crimson turned dark. The shiny and squishy turned dull and hard. Cold. The red she gave stopped flowing. What was this, again? Nostalgia?

Something wrenched itself in her abdominals as the thing died. It felt like she could explode, save for the fact that there was nothing to escape from her innards. Like a rotten taste had managed all the way to the back of her throat and planted itself in hopes of growing. Before she had the chance for further inspection, a light tapping embraced her shoulders. As she turned, her face was met with that of a small man.

A man?

No, this looked like no human she could ever fish from her memories. But it did have a sense of nostalgia on it.

He was an abstract creature; flat as though he could be 2nd dimensional, yet his face portrayed two eyes. He walked on two pencil-thin legs with arms to match, wearing a pair of white gloves and a yellow striped bow tie. The small man was blue all over with a red nose and an extra set of hands flattened on his face, pitched to that crimson colour she loved so much. But... he wore a scowl that rung familiarity in her bosom. The kind of familiarity a child is hit with when they break an object and know they're in trouble.

And once she raised a hand to the little man, he immediately began a strange chirping of screams. She jumped back in her skin, placing ears atop her head in an attempt to block out the sound-breaking creature. The ink stirred up inside her and made the thumping in her chest race. It felt as though her eyes would pop from their sockets at any given moment should she idle any longer, so she stood up and raised her leg.

With no hesitance or lack of force, the heel of her boot met with his face until she could feel the ground through the man. She kept digging in harder and harder, until the screaming finally ceased and the blank world only she had ever resided in was quiet once more.

One last kick sent him flying to another invisible wall, smashing the rest of his face and leaving those red hands of his to dangle as if they had never been supported to begin with. Her breath came out in sharp daggers, her pale iris' dilating her pupils as if she had actually been in somesome plausible danger. And just as she was about to turn tail and pretend this had never happened, that this wasn't real or had it ever existed, the strange man spoke:

"Don't be stupid, friend! C'mon, it's time to go!" Oh how she knew that voice. Now who did it belong to again?

A strongstrong wind came from behind her, leaving her hair to slap her in the face and her dress to flutter about, momentarily blinding the she. When she managed to push the hair from her sight, the strange man had just become an empty old circle with patterns painted on; just a silly old clock. From behind, a black door standing tall with an unnecessary amount of human images plastered unto the frame. With a heavy creak, the iron clad wood swung o p enough just enough for a small being to slip through.

Approaching with caution, she looked through the crack the newfound door provided. But there was nothing to see. From beyond was only darkness, a colorless world with less than a sliver of light. What better a place to teach the brainless of the worlworld the beauty of creativity?