He draws pictures. They are as horrible as they are realistic. He doesn't pay attention to him. Smear after smear, hands, eyes, a couple of eyes, unnaturally long fingers.
He draws pictures. Such horrible, as unusual as they are. His coffee has long cooled down, the paper glass continues to get wet. Smear by smear, and here, your fear turns into a picture.
He draws pictures. And it's so impassive as it is talented.
***
He wakes up in a cold sweat again, missing a dream in his head.
He dreams of an artist again.
A young brown-haired man with a childlike appearance is his worst nightmare.
He loves coffee and makes Frank hysterical.
He doesn't remember when it started and what was the catalyst. But the artist comes in his dreams more often.
He draws better and better, more and more realistic in his new dream.
Frank is afraid of this teenager.
Frank is afraid that one day his portrait will be on canvas.
***
He's walking down the street. Walking through puddles and squelching in the mud.
Frank was late, though he knew he was late everywhere. He was late to make it. It was his motto to be late.
He walks straight ahead, not wrapped up in warm cafes. Frank likes to be here. The promenade is his favorite place. A place where two worlds are separated. Frank takes his hand along the ice railing. They remind him of the hands of an artist who paints another portrait in such frost.
Their sights meet. Frank is not a doctor, but would describe this phenomenon as a temporary cardiac arrest. The artist looks at him with a certain awareness. A strand of tarry hair behind the ear tends to tuck in.
Frank wants to run. But he can't even lift a finger. In his dreams, he paints pictures. Terrible paintings. Now he paints people. The same terrible and ugly creatures.
Frank doesn't like people, most often they hurt, leaving the prints of their gloomy fingers on the soul. He needs to turn around and leave. But he takes a step towards it, going to pass by his nightmare.
— "I like your emotions", Frank hears a voice behind his back.
He never knew how the artist's voice sounded, but now Frank is sure it's him.
Frank doesn't want to, but he turns around with a soft smile on his weathered lips.
- "I want to draw you", — it's a phrase that hits harder than any other person Frank has ever met.
Artist's coffee became cold, and the paper glass continued to get wet.
He smiles at Frank nicely, inviting him to sit down. Frank still feels the work of his heart. Blow by blow. He counts and is afraid to lose count when the first brush stroke dirty the canvas. Soon there will be a portrait on canvas. The artist draws his main fears.
***
Frank doesn't dream of him anymore. The artist no longer paints his fears. Now, these paintings surround him here.
Frank is used to seeing strange creatures around him. He's used to not feeling their views. Don't give in to the temptation to look back. Don't let them touch themselves. Their footprints do not wash off their skin with water. Frank cuts them off.
The artist stopped protecting him from his own fears.
Frank misses his nightmare.
Now he sleeps normally. Spending most of the day trying to draw a smile. Repeat the contour of the eyes.
Frank can't. He has almost forgotten what the artist looks like. He remembers his black long hair, his nose upside down, his brush in his hands.
Frank forgets that too. His memory never ceases to clear his mind of unnecessary information. Frank would like to clear his memories of himself.
***
He doesn't like to find out anything else. Frank takes care of everything that's left of his memory. Unnecessary information moves the necessary to the inevitable end, the abyss, which you want to jump into.
Frank doesn't like the realization that he's going to get into the abyss. With white walls and the same color as the doctors' clothes. White color cuts eyes and black soul. Tainted and slimy.
Frank doesn't like the feeling of it. He does not like to understand that his soul is not clean.
He would sell it, give it away for free, feeling the vicious emptiness somewhere near the diaphragm.
Frank wants to sleep. He wants to have nightmares in his sleep again as long as they stop showing up outside his bathroom door.
***
He's going in the rain. It gets soaked to the thread. He doesn't like it in his legs, but he doesn't give a damn. He stopped worrying about something long ago.
Frank doesn't remember the calm at sea. There is always a storm at sea. He escorts his hand along the ice railings. They remind him of the hands of an artist who gives him a portrait.
Frank threw a picture under his bed long ago. To those monsters from the head. The body makes a mistake. It is unpleasant to see him in his fingers when he meets those swampy eyes.
— Hi, do you want me to draw your nightmare, — smiling nicely, the artist asks.