The Portrait
“He was afraid she would. He couldn't stand the sound of her voice, but when she was silent he nearly went crazy in the quiet. He couldn't bear her presence, but he hated being alone more. Because when she was silent, and when she was gone, he had no choice but to look inside himself, and what he saw there terrified him. Hopelessness. Blackness. Madness. A despair that wouldn't go away. He was mad; his father had always said it, everyone had always said it. And every year brought that insanity c...loser, until now it was hovering just beyond him, baiting him, threatening him. One day he would wake up and it would all be over, he knew. His mind would be consumed by the blackness. There was only a thin wall keeping it from him now. A thin wall.
Genie.
He turned to look at her. She was sitting just beyond him, looking stiff and uncomfortable in one of the rickety ladderback chairs he'd bought from some relocating artist. She'd pinned her hair back again, but it was escaping from the chignon to dangle about her cheeks and against her neck, and the honey-colored strands warmed the paleness of her face, the colorlessness of her lips.MoreLess
Genie.
He turned to look at her. She was sitting just beyond him, looking stiff and uncomfortable in one of the rickety ladderback chairs he'd bought from some relocating artist. She'd pinned her hair back again, but it was escaping from the chignon to dangle about her cheeks and against her neck, and the honey-colored strands warmed the paleness of her face, the colorlessness of her lips.MoreLess
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