Outside the studio, vehicles zoomed from one side to another so fast that the normal passerby could barely distinguish them. The first year after they moved in, Sylvester had covered every window with thick black cardstock, and to this day pieces of it and tape still hung stubborn to the corners. They didn't care much to clean them up, though. A once-famous art studio, it had certainly seen better days: when the floor was covered in paint, light relished in every nook and cranny, and music echoed with every brushtroke. There had been a sort of magic there, once.

It was all in ashes now.

Even so, Sylvester wasn't able to stop. They scooped up the ashes from the floor and achingly brushed them into a new canvas. It was a slow process, but one by one thin and thick brushstrokes began taking shape: in the background, looking yellow threes reached the sky; in the foreground, a single person stood stall amongst the paint, lonely in blue. Sylvester eyed it with a critical mind everytime they stopped to refill their palette with more paint. The painting had a clichéd theme, perhaps; but there was something charming in the compostion. Something that they hadn't been able to find in their recent projects anymore.

The burst of laughter and the smell of humid dirt and trees.

Happy, Sylvester stepped back and gathered every brush stained with paint -- they normally had a 'dirty water' vase where used brushes would rest until they had time to clean them up. They took great care as they shook them around in newly poured solvent, but their eyes kept glancing back at the drying painting. Pride bloomed in Sylvester's chest, and it was a feeling that nowadays was strange with unfamiliarity, though it had once been a close friend.

The painting was good. They were sure of it.

This one would sell.

Sylvester shook the brushes against the air, and placed them back into a vase with the hair to the ceiling. Then, they grabbed the canvas and set it to dry against a corner of the room. Without taking their eyes off it, they sat down on the other side, resting their back against the cold wall. They would wait.

They were burning through whatever savings they'd managed to accomulate before the fire, and most of it was going steadily towards Foster's medical bills anyway. They had to pay rent to keep the studio, and they had already had to leave their flat. If they didn't manage to sell any paintings or score any commissions, they would be out of the place within two months at most.

"Fucking useless," they berated themselves, eyesight still stuck to the drying canvas.

The words fed a spark growing in their belly. It had slight twinges of ruby red, burning its surroundings with ferocity. Silvester glanced at the painting lying on the floor. No artist truly ever considered a project finished -- not one would ever stop noticing each and every flaw hiding within brushstrokes. Most of the work relied on accepting and making peace with them, trying to do better each time. Sylvester was no different, or he had been, in another life.

Now, looking at the splashes of watered-down blue that surrounded thin ochre lines as they created the illusion of far-away flora, they could only see themselves. Rejected and lost. Undeserving of every ounce of hope that their teachers had ever placed in them. Every expectation of their family and themselves, heavy over their shoulders.

The spark grew bigger and bigger, until it glowed scarlet. In an instant, Silvester had stood up, grabbed the canvas, and with a single poignant movement, thrown it across the room.

They screamed, whether in anguish or anger, they would never know. Maybe a bit of both. The noise mixed with the heavy thud of the painting crashing agaisnt the wall, and then as it hit the floor. The wood broke apart and the fabric untensed in a way that was odd-putting, like a piece of dirty laundry forgotten in the floor.

Sylvester burst into laughter, strained and unnerving, even to their own ears. They realized that they too were lying on the floor, every bit of energy they'd had evaporated into the air. They stared at the ruined painting until they realized it wasn't laugher coming out of their chest, but sobs. When fire is hot enough, it appears blue, and as the spark became bigger, traces of it started to peak through.

"That's a shame," they heard a whisper behind them. It sounded like it came from a comm, the sound raspy and short.

"What is?"

Their own voice was tight and wobbly, but they still didn't dare look around. They kept looking at the painting.

"The piece," the person replied. "It was lovely."

Sylvester snorted sarcastically. "Well, then you'd be the only one to think so."

"Would I?"

"Look," they forced out, face still red and wet with tears and snot. They were the most attractive crier ever. "This is not the best moment for me, but if you could come later..."

Their voice trailed off, almost like turning the volume down on a song. Mid-sentence, they'd turned around to look at the mysterious speaker, look into their eyes so they would be able to see just how much of a mess they were in (as if the floor covered in debris hadn't been enough). Except...

There had been no one there.

Through dizzyness and trembling limbs, Sylvester stood up from the floor and grabbed a long berry-colored brush from the table. They placed the wooden tip on the opposite end to their body, creating a stupid makeshift weapon. Tiny thuds echoed around the room as Sylvester walked with weariness, accompanyied with a heartbeat that arranged the sounds into a full-on orchestra. Hand in front of them like a cop holding a gun in a procedural drama, Sylvester went through the studio, making sure it was empty. Once they knew they were really alone, they locked the door and pushed the windows closed, let out a breath, and finally, put the brush down.

There was no way that voice had been real. It had only been a hallucination manifested through sleepless nights and stinky breath, Sylvester thought again and again until they could convince themselves of the fact. Then, they crashed into their rackedy couch and fell into a restless sleep.