“Another existential crisis?” he snorted.
I tug on the ropes binding my wrists as his grin widens.
He dabbles his brush between different shades on his pallet, and continues to babble on like the idiot he is, “you writers are so pretentious, falling in love with different versions of yourselves only to be tortured by the demons you invite in. You, Writer, are nothing but a psychotic liar stringing stories as solid as a house of cards…”
Funny of you to say, Artist, since you’re the one mixing shades of murder to paint my portrait right now. I tilt my head to the side and raise my eyebrows higher.
Do tell, how many gallons of paint do you waste everyday to disguise your ugly frown?
Blood continues to drip from the stitches keeping my mouth sealed shut.
The surge of pain overrides the rising panic attack.
“You think you have the world figured out, don’t you? “ he hisses.
As if you have all the answers, Artist?
“One day, your past will catch up to you,” he sighs deeply, ”and I’ll be there to make art out of all the rotten pieces.”
Blood and tears crust on the stitches covering my mouth. White spots dance in my vision, encouraging me to triumph.
He breaks his pallet with his bare hands. “You are a liar and-”
You are a con artist.