By: Sandy Fishnets

Only God could see his hand trembling as he dragged the brush across the canvas. It wasn’t him painting—it was something else, something desperate, something screaming for release. The strokes came faster, more erratic, as though the brush was leading him, not the other way around. He painted his screams because no one could hear them. One stroke, then another. Let the canvas bury the suffering, justify it, make it real.

“Look at me,” a voice whispered.

Alex flinched, nearly dropping the brush. His eyes darted up to the painting, to the portrait staring back at him. The apartment was silent except for his own ragged breathing. The voice—where had it come from? The street outside? The thin walls of the neighbors? Or had it crawled out of his own exhausted mind?

His insomnia had begun playing tricks on him long ago. He ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. Just in case, he rose from the chair and walked through the small apartment, the last remnant of a life he barely recognized. He checked the door, the window, the dimly lit hallway outside. Nothing. No one.

Returning to his workstation, he grabbed the bottle beside him and took a long sip, the bitter burn grounding him. His gaze drifted back to the canvas. A woman stared back at him—Maria, her features etched in cold, ghostly blue. His fingers twitched as he reached out, brushing the paint on her cheek. The longer he stared, the more her lips seemed to move, the faintest hint of a smile forming.

“I told you not to make a habit of it,” she had once said.

The scent of pine drifted through his mind, and suddenly, he was back in their kitchen. Maria stood at the counter, slicing tomatoes, the blade glinting under the dim light. The discarded green tops tumbled into the open trash bin, landing atop a crumpled child’s drawing—scribbled in ballpoint pen, the only tool their son was allowed.

“Maria,” Alex said cautiously, taking a step toward her. “This law won’t last forever. Tim deserves a future where he can express himself, I don’t want to feel him trapped.”

She didn’t stop slicing, but her shoulders tensed. Her eyes, exhausted but sharp, glistened with something unspoken. Guilt, maybe. Was she the bad parent here? She knew throwing the drawing away had hurt Tim. But guilt had no place in survival.

“Am I the one making him trapped?” she whispered.

The knife clattered onto the cutting board. She turned to him, arms crossed, her face unreadable. Then, in a voice quieter than before, she asked, “Why do you fill his head with false hope? Do you want him to end up like you?”

Alex opened his mouth to argue, but she didn’t let him.

“Do you want him taken from us?”

“You know that’s not true,” he said, stepping closer. “I care about you more than anything in this world.”

For a moment, she softened. Her lips parted as if to respond, as if his words had reached her. Then she smiled, but it wasn’t warmth—it was bitter.

“It’s funny hearing you say that,” she murmured, wiping her hands on a towel. “After what I found behind the old dresser. The one you told me not to touch.”

His stomach twisted.

“I found brushes. Paints. Canvases.” Her voice was sharp now, each word like a blade. “And your little artwork.”

“I asked you for one thing, Maria. Just one thing.”

“Oh, you asked?” She laughed bitterly. “Did you ever think about us? About the consequences?”

Alex grabbed her elbows—not to hurt, just to make her listen. To make her understand. “The world is going insane. First, they took our paintings. Next, they’ll take our music, our words, our thoughts. They’ll take everything from us until there’s nothing left. And they’ll say it’s for our own good.”

Maria wrenched herself free. “Who cares, Alex? This is your family! You’re throwing everything away for something that doesn’t matter anymore.”

“If he wants to draw, he’ll draw. That’s his choice.”

“No.” Her voice was firm, colder than before. “I won’t let you drag him down with you.”

Silence fell between them, heavy and suffocating. The kitchen lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows against the walls. Maria didn’t look at him as she picked up the knife and resumed chopping.

Alex’s breath hitched as the memory faded, snapping him back to the present. His fingers curled into a fist, smearing blue paint against his palm. His gaze drifted to Maria’s painted face, the one he had created—her lips still hovering between a smile and something else.

Shaking, he pressed his hand against her cheek, leaving behind the mark of his guilt. The blue stain spread across the glassy surface of the painting, as if Maria herself had absorbed it. His breath shuddered as he whispered her name.

From somewhere—whether in his mind or beyond it—her voice echoed back.

“Look at me.”