He sets the last box of his belongings in the middle of his first apartment. The landlord had seemed overly pleased to finally rent the place. Considering the story he had foreclosed, due to some legal clause or another, Jonathan was not the least bit surprised. The last tenant had apparently trapped the fancies of the wrong man, and had gotten herself killed.The worthless animal had then played dress up and did the only good thing he had done in his miserable life, and ended it.
You know murder suicide aside, he had fallen in love with the place upon seeing the mural painted in the bedroom. A garish house lays the backdrop, surrounded by warped trees, that seem to have a million eyes, camouflaged cleverly among the bark. A field of mournful wheat, lay just in front of the house with the biggest, most menacing, tree in the piece. Hanging from the most warped and largest of the center trees branches, hangs an old warped tire swing. Sitting upon the tire is the image of a very young girl, no older than ten, with limbs as thin and frail as some of the smaller branches of the tree. Her eyes are black, and lips a dull pink. Her unkempt black hair, is as tangled and twisted as the branches of the many trees.
He had asked the landlord who had painted the mural, and knew the answer from the shadow that had crossed the man’s face. “What was her name?” He had asked. With a pained look in his eye he responded, “Ravyn, with a Y not an E. Her name was Ravyn.”
He had been an artist since he had held his first crayon. He liked to believe that any art we create in this life, is a piece of our soul left to the world when we are gone. He had never in his life seen a better example than this mural. So much pain held in the eyes of this girl, a lifeless painting that beats with emotion.
Finally finished unpacking the few possessions he had obtained in his short twenty-two years, he sits on his worn out couch, in front of his outdated television, in his living room, and smiles at the thought. Before too long, the documentary on Mozart he had been trying to watch for months, inevitably sends him crashing deeply into sleep.
He’s in his room, sitting at the foot of his bed, looking at the mural. The trees seem to sway, as if under the influence of a fierce wind. The girl no longer sits on the old worn out tire swing. Instead she has climbed to the utmost point on the central tree, and is waving her arms excitedly. She is screaming something he can’t quite hear, and is pointing emphatically behind him. He turns, but he seems to move in slow motion, almost as if every muscle in his body is pleading with him to stop.
His eyes finally meet the bed behind him, two lovers are tangled under his sheets, he hurriedly turns his head away, face red in embarrassment. Standing in the corner, on the right side of the mural, is a large muscular man. His face is obscured by the darkness but his eyes, his eyes stare straight into Jonathan’s, and all he feels is hate. All he knows is rage. Jonathan stands and walks to his dresser, opens the top drawer to find a shiny silver pistol. He grabs the cold steel, and holds it close to his eye, admiring the snub nose revolver as if it were an old lover. He turns back to the bed, points the gun at the two lovers, and empties all six chambers.
He gasps awake, the couch under him is soaked from the sweat that still clings to every inch of his body. For a moment he almost grabs the keys to his car and heads back to his parents house. The thought disappears nearly as fast as it was conceived. After all, no reason to panic over a silly nightmare.