His eyes fluttering to consciousness, Edward drowsily raises his head to find that he has been sleeping on a large overturned canvas. As he unfolds his body from the confines of the wooden frame he notices a cut on the side of his paint-splattered palm. The crescent-shaped gash is rough with dried blood and Edward searches his mind for the evening’s script. Directing his gaze to the illuminated kitchen, he abandons the canvas.
The kitchen counter is littered with paintbrushes, deflated tubes of paint, gingerbread crumbs, a teapot. Edward releases a sorrowful sigh as he notices two teacups: one fractured in half, the other full of liquid, untouched. He looks around at the empty apartment, the drops of blood on the counter, and realizes that his clumsy nocturnal activities must have been the result of his recurring sleeping sickness. His hand pushes against his creased forehead and travels down the back of his head, over the bumpy texture of his ash-coloured braid as painful rhapsody floods his mind.
To be continued.
Featured Image Credit: Pablo Picasso, The Blind Man’s Meal, 1903