The painting looms large in the dim light of the living room. Diane sips her wine and peers into the frame, trying to discern if there any features on the distant figures at the base of the tower. The setting is a tad overwrought, she thinks. Gathering clouds roiling darkly in all directions, an inversion of the spittle-foam waves threatening to engulf the rocky outcropping where the tower stands. The silhouettes have their back turned to the entrance and their arms are raised to the sky with clenched fists. Behind them the gate is half-opened and someone’s fingers are showing in the gap.
“What do you think?”, asks Tom. She squints. “Not my thing. I like to know what I’m looking at.” She’s startled at a hint of movement as if an insect is scurrying on the canvas. Did one of the figures just fall to its knees? These shapes are so vague she could be seeing something different every time. She winks at Tom. “What’s this? Some sort of light show? Is that where your paycheck goes these days?”
“Huh? No, I found it in a yard sale. The guy selling had left it next to some mysterious junk and he just offered it to me when I pointed it out. He said no one’s asked about it so I might as well have it. Supposedly it belonged to his great grandma or some shit and he had no space for it. Bargain!” “Yeah, top of the line trash treasure,” chuckled Diane. “It’s kinda creepy. I could swear one of them fell to its knees.”
“Where? No, they’re dancing. It’s actually pretty cool. There’s loads of little bits that I didn’t notice at first either. Do you see the carved eyes near the top of the tower and the way the rain runs like tears on the wall or the flames inside the gate that match the patterns on the sea? See how one of the dancers has a Diane vibe? Check out their rings.”
“What? When did you become an aficionado? I can’t even see their faces. How much of that bottle did you have?” Diane leans closer and more details start to emerge as if the scene is shifting and responding to her examination instead of her discovering aspects that were already there. She examines the person on the left. Red hair, brown eyes, black dress. “Diane vibe? Redheads aren’t clones, asshole.” She does look like me though, she thinks begrudgingly. The other one’s ebony-haired, wiry and tall and dressed in blue. They both look like they’re caught in a state of rapture. Why are their rings so blisteringly white? They make her think of curled and bony baby fingers. She’s starting to seriously consider that Tom is somehow fucking with her.
“Is this like when we were kids with the dead beetles under my pillow, psycho? How are these people changing? They didn’t even have faces before.” She turns to punch Tom on the shoulder and he’s no longer there. “Tom? What the fuck? Hello?” She walks around the house, checking every room. Empty. “Is this the part where I’m laughing hysterically? Bring Diane to the new house, freak her out, giggle with the others like a big fat shit, success!” No answer. She fruitlessly wanders for a while until she hears something moving in the living room. She can’t help but feel a flicker of amusement despite her intensifying nerves. He’s pulling all the stops with this one. It’s not like she won’t turn the tables on him as always. It didn’t take long for him to find the beetles sprinkled in his cereal. Crunchy.
She crouches low beside the doorway and waits for him to come looking for her. Come on, little brother. Come find me. I’ll make you wear that stupid painting. Minutes pass. She listens impatiently in the fading glow. It sounds like he’s pacing and whispering. She gradually notices a peculiar change in the air. The walls are thrumming with a tremulous hum. They’re warm to the touch and it feels as if with the least bit of pressure from her they will slide and bend and give way to something else. Something else? Is he actually getting to her? She steadies herself and recites a litany of certainties. Walls don’t hum. Paintings don’t shift. My brother is a bastard.
“All right, enough!”, she shouts in resignation and gets up to end these games. As she walks in, she’s hit by the sudden smell of brine and the shock of cold wind and stinging drizzle. She’s breathless and panting with movement in the throes of frantic dancing while her partner in the blue dress matches her every step, the sky rumbles overhead and the waves lunge longingly at the shore. She hears the gate open behind her and the crackle of burning wood in the room beyond. Her skin is taut and glowing with renewed fervour and she knows she’s only getting started. She blinks through her sweat and sees the painting suspended in front of her like a growing gash. Tom is depicted standing in the living room wide-eyed and leaning forward. His hands are on the edges of the frame. He’s not moving.
A piercing wailing permeates everything and it takes her a long moment to identify herself as the source. She falls to her knees with her companion and they stretch and raise their firsts towards the tower’s top. The eyes in the brickwork are alive, bloodshot and veiny and the tears begin to fall. The fire roars from within, the sea is a crushing embrace and the sky is a gaping wound. Tom’s skin is running and his eyes and mouth form a clueless O as the colours mingle. Inside the painting in another world in another life so long ago, so far away, the living room is awash in an orange haze. The paint swirls into a whirlpool of hues and shades and the portal pulses open.
“We are coming, little brother.”
