It was happening again. That thing.
Taylor heaved a shuddering breath, staring up at the once-plain wall of her apartment. It had been a splash of deep red, an accent wall to stand against the nearly-white of the rest.
The rich red is submerged now, slashed viciously with repeated impressions of color that have melted like ice cream on the fourth of July but with a more coherent result. Well, if the images of smudged skies, broken buildings and zig-zagged bright lines melding into each other could be considered 'coherent.' Standing as close as she is, the woman can see that it had to have been one of her large, flat brushes she'd been using. Normally, they were used exclusively for priming canvas; she'd be cleaning those brushes for a week judging by the mess here.
Too bad Taylor didn't remember doing any of this; she lived alone. It had to be her painting these impromptu murals. The episodes had been easing off. There hadn't been any sort of stretch of time she couldn't account for in. . . ages. Or so she had thought. Sadly, right here there was some rather colorful evidence that maybe she had been wrong to have some hope.
She likened it to a desk. It was like having a series of drawers. . . you normally knew what was in the top drawer (because you used it all the time) and the bottom drawer (where you can put the Big Stuff). People normally can't recall what's in the middle drawer, a kind of unloved-middle-child of a drawer.
She likened it to a desk. It was like having a series of drawers. . . you normally knew what was in the top drawer (because you used it all the time) and the bottom drawer (where you can put the Big Stuff). People normally can't recall what's in the middle drawer, a kind of unloved-middle-child of a drawer.
And then some bastard comes along and upends all of the drawers and doesn't bother to tell you. That's what's happened here, except it was no drawer. It was Taylor's ability to recall. There wasn't even the luxury of denial here; the paint was thick and congealed beneath the woman's short fingernails, spattered over her shirt, smeared in her short and dark hair.
It was Taylor who did the deed, no doubt of it.
It was also Taylor who shakes her head in disgust and turns on the ball of a bare foot to go looking for her wall roller and a pail of paint in the color the accent wall was supposed to be. Raspberry Bliss.
If she ever wanted to give up her current occupation, Taylor had no doubt that she would have a bright future as an interior painter. The last half year had given her enough practice to learn the ins and outs, such as to forget priming it. There was no need these days, layers of disturbing paintings buried between shallow graves of her chosen accent color. Corpses of color, stacked on on top of the other as Taylor had neither the time nor the urge to strip the wall back to its base.
Jeoff had called her fucked up. Taylor hadn't been able to refute that, generally because of things like this. Still, people in her section of the Academy were closely monitored mentally and physically and the check-ups hadn't found anything. Then again, the questionnaires never specifically queried this.
'How often do you wake up and find you've had some sort of impromptu art fest in your living room? Please circle: Never Occasionally Sometimes Often Always'
"Is there anything you'd like to tell me about before we finish, Ms. Forge?"
There never is.
It was also Taylor who shakes her head in disgust and turns on the ball of a bare foot to go looking for her wall roller and a pail of paint in the color the accent wall was supposed to be. Raspberry Bliss.
If she ever wanted to give up her current occupation, Taylor had no doubt that she would have a bright future as an interior painter. The last half year had given her enough practice to learn the ins and outs, such as to forget priming it. There was no need these days, layers of disturbing paintings buried between shallow graves of her chosen accent color. Corpses of color, stacked on on top of the other as Taylor had neither the time nor the urge to strip the wall back to its base.
Jeoff had called her fucked up. Taylor hadn't been able to refute that, generally because of things like this. Still, people in her section of the Academy were closely monitored mentally and physically and the check-ups hadn't found anything. Then again, the questionnaires never specifically queried this.
'How often do you wake up and find you've had some sort of impromptu art fest in your living room? Please circle: Never Occasionally Sometimes Often Always'
"Is there anything you'd like to tell me about before we finish, Ms. Forge?"
There never is.
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