define:existence

moodboard

“Like falling leaves,” Angela said. voice trembling. She squeezed her elbows, eyes distant. “I once visited my grandmother in Vermont. They say that the trees are red that time of year, but I only remember the color of the leaves as they hit the ground. Brown and yellow and black. The colors of death.”

The sketch artist stared at her for a second. “So…brown? With highlights and lowlights?” He started sketching, brow furrowed, as she remained silent. “And what shape was his face? Round? Square?”

“Like a hatchet,” Angela whispered. “Mean. Hard. His nose sharpened into a blade above which his eyes peered out hawkishly. His chin had a cleft in it, a more handsome feature on any other man, perhaps one that was twenty pounds heavier and without the hollows he kept in his cheeks.”

“That’s…descriptive,” the artist said. As much as he hated to admit it, the picture was coming along nicely with her descriptions. “And his mouth? Just, like, if he had fuller lips or thinner one,” he added quickly.

“He had a mouth like an open wound,” she said wrathfully. “His teeth bared in a permanent grimace, all his teeth the sort of perfect white you find in a cemetery peeking out between bloodless lips. When he smiled, it looked painful, like he was being forced at gun point.”

“Thinner would have sufficed,” the sketch artist told her. He wanted to ask about that last bit, about the man being forced to rob her store, but didn’t think he’d be able to parse her answer. “Nearly done.” He turned his pad around, showing her. “Is this the man you saw?”

She visibly recoiled. “The visage is not unlike the golem that prays upon my sleep! Oh, nightmare! You have caught the essence of the thing in idea and detail, sir.”

“….thanks,” the sketch artist said. He took a deep breath. One more question. He could do it. “A-and what color were his eyes?”

Angela’s tormented gaze crashed into his, electricity seeming to crack in the air around them.

“Cerulean,” she said, mouth trembling, “cursed cerulean orbs.”