Her studio guttered, Pixie peeled the charcoaled canvas off the concrete.
She’d been burned to death.
That painting was the culmination of every single heartbeat, every flicker of shadow and light. Her soul pulled inside out, spurted in thick acrylic, bleeding and raw.
Art was her voice. Her only exit from the labyrinth.
Pixie covered her ears and started to scream…a scream without end.
Axel wrapped a blanket around the shattered nymph. He’d seen her waft in and out of the warehouse before, lost like a leaf in the wind.
That,” he beamed, “Is how I met your Grandmother.”
PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll