"You have a painter's hands," he murmured. His hand rested gently on mine as I moved the brush across the white abyss.
"There's no such thing." The red mixed with the purple, making violet.
"Sure there is. Yours. Now there is such a thing." He pushed himself against me, but I push him back. I'm not in the mood. Not anymore.
"Is this what you do for a living?" I asked. "Paint?"
"Nothing more I need." The true words of a bum.
"Well, I'll be going now." I dropped the brush on the paper, a small drop of violet spattering on the bed.
"What? You're leaving?" He looked like a shocked five-year-old, kneeling on the bed.
"I'd need more than this." Outside is silent and dark, the crescent moon not bright enough to light the way. Her footsteps were impossible to miss, yet only I heard them.
"Did you get it?" I never saw her face, for she always stood in the shadow.
I rummage in my bag and take out the red bottle. "This was all you wanted? A bottle of paint?"
"No. Stupid. It's what's inside that counts." She took out a knife and easily cut off the top half of the bottle. Paint spilled over her hand and onto the sidewalk. Another small bottle was inside. She smirked. "Here. Drink it when you get home, then I'll come for you."
"Will he come?" I asked, taking the red bottle from her.
She scoffed. "No. He has more important things to do. Quit thinking like a human. That'll get you killed." She disappears into the shadow, and I was all alone.
I trashed my whole apartment, breaking every single thing I owned; I wasn't going to need it anymore. As I stood in my living room, surrounded by a trashy life, there was a knock on my door. Muttering curses to myself I open it to find him in the doorway.
"Hey, babe." He then pulled out a gun, pointed it at my chest, and pulled the trigger.