Shroud Of Beckoning

Straining to hear a voice or a sound, Jarred heard nothing, not even the odd chanting. His awkward gait made him stumble into a painting of a sad girl in a red dress whose black eyes hid amid brown bangs. Her right hand was on the arm of a high-back brown chair; her left was up, as if trying to touch the artist. After Jarred tried to rub away a building headache behind his bloody gash, his bloody fingers touched her painted fingers, which he swore began reaching toward him. Looking down, he saw colorful flower petals amid a foggy haze on the red carpet. Curious, he picked some petals up and squeezed their odd freshness between his calloused fingertips. Unable to resist, he inhaled their scent, which made his exhaling breath opaque in the chilly air. When an out-of-place emotion told him to flee, he didn’t listen. Instead, he continued down the hallway of painted children that studied his every step, anticipated his every move, heard his every thought, and savored his every emotion.

Busy glancing into the rooms opposite each other, which Jarred had already checked, Ty didn’t see Jarred staring at a painting of a sad girl, whose painted nostrils flared as she inhaled Jarred’s exhaled breath. Jarred didn’t know why he did this, but his bloody fingers touched her lips as they mouthed, “Thank you.” Then without thinking, he whispered, “You’re welcome.” The instant that he turned away, the girl’s painted fingertips stretched the tight threads of her canvas in a selfish bid to touch his aura.

Stopping at the next painting, he stepped back to get a better view. Behind him, hazy fingers slithered out of a ripped canvas and accidentally touched his shaggy hairline. Certain that Ty had touched him, Jarred whirled the shotgun around. “Aanson, if you fucking touch me aga …” He didn’t finish when he saw that Aanson was nearly four feet away. Feeling caught, he lowered the shotgun as his tingling back fell against the ripped painting. Rubbing his neck, his shaky fingers slid over the childhood scar behind his ear, then over the fur on his coat collar. He had to drag a breath into his lungs, but his tight vest limited it. Across from where he stood, his blurry eyes saw a little girl’s oily hand motioning him closer. Shaking his head at the unbelievable sight, he was beginning to believe he did have a concussion after all.

“Officer Blanton, what did you say?” Ty saw Jarred leaning against a painting. However, he didn’t see the boy’s hazy hands hovering around him or flower petals blowing over his boots.

As Jarred kept an eye on the girl trying to push her way out of her canvas, he cracked out, “Nothing.” Behind him, he was unaware of the boy’s fingers stroking the tips of his hair.

Apprehensive with Jarred’s quivering voice, Ty stepped closer because something suddenly didn’t feel right; hell, something didn’t feel right about this whole night. Had Ty noticed that, as they walked by each painting of entrapment, painted lungs inhaled their exhaled breaths, he might’ve demanded they leave, but he didn’t. Nor did he notice a pink blouse rise slightly off a canvas before floating back into ruffled oily cotton or a boy’s green painted shirt crack when he inhaled Jarred’s exhaled emotional breath. At that, he didn’t hear soft voices chanting, “Our savior is finally here,” but Jarred did, however, he refused to admit to it for obvious reasons. Nevertheless, Jarred paused at each painting of tightly woven cotton because he swore that their rosy lips mouthed, “Touch me, set me free; it’s so cold in here.”

At the end of the hall, a whispering voice made Jarred slowly turn his flashlight toward a painted eleven-year-old boy sitting on the lap of an obscure man. Like the other paintings, the boy’s hand was reaching upward. Shoulder-length blonde hair dusted the boy’s olive green eyes and lured Jarred’s bloodshot-hazel eyes closer. Just as Jarred touched the reaching hand, a memory flashed through his thoughts of clenching two boys’ hands high into the air. As if pushing the hands farther upward to seal a bond of blood brothers, he saw blood dripping down their arms. Though it seemed so real, he couldn’t recall ever doing such an act. To change his thoughts, he began petting a white baby falcon that stood amid white snow that had fallen on a white tablecloth draping a white table. When warm blood dripped off Jarred’s hand, it melted the snow until it bled through the tablecloth’s fine threads and stained the table red.