#dw im careful when i cross the streets i swear

[becauseplot]

First time I’m messing with the Inktordem prompt list! Swapping days 3 and 5 because I started writing what I have planned for the “Orfanato” prompt and realized I simply don’t have time for it today. Have this instead!

Spoilers for general OSNF lore!

DAY 3 (5) — PINTURAS

It has to be perfect. She dips her brush into the pot of paint and brings it to the canvas once more, dragging it in long, branching arcs. Black runs on black, beads trickling down until they are swallowed by the darkness.

It has to be perfect. The paint soaks the canvas, and yet the black never seems to penetrate deep enough. She knows what it’s meant to look like. She sees it so clearly in her mind, the mouth of the Cave, the Cave, the Cave. Nothing ever like it, and yet she is compelled, more than compelled, to capture its likeness on the canvas, to help it grow.

It wants to evolve. It has to be perfect. She dips her brush into the pot of paint and brings it to the canvas once more, dragging it in long, branching arcs. Black runs on black, layered on thicker and thicker, darkness reaching deeper and deeper.

It has to be perfect. Wider arcs open it up, close to its Bigness in her mind, swirls along the edges, then painting over those as well.

She can make it perfect. She wants to understand. She can make it perfect. She needs to reach deeper. She dips her fingers into the pot of paint and brings them to the canvas once more, dragging them in long, branching arcs. Black runs on black, the whorls of her fingerprints swallowed more and more with each lap around the canvas. The Cave, the Cave, the Cave opens itself up to her, waiting, knowing.

It has to be perfect. She dips her hands into the pot of paint and brings them to the canvas once more, dragging them in long, branching arcs. Black runs on black, creases of her skin leaving streaks in their wake. Dynamic to the darkness. New. Closer. She’s closer. Get closer.

Get closer.

It has to be perfect. She dips into the pot of paint and brings herself to the canvas once more, dragging in long, branching arcs. Black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on black runs on

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With the chatter of Liz and the others behind him, Thiago observes the last painting in the gallery, arms crossed. The opening of the cave has spilled over. The paint is visibly dripping down the canvas and pooling, dried, on the floor. If he squints, he can just barely see the outline of her shoes where she stood—“Lurdete,” according to the signature on the previous paintings. There is no such signature on this one. If there ever was, it’s been swallowed by the cave.

Thiago gets closer. He squints at the paint. He thought it was just splatter, someone taking a bucket of paint to the canvas with manic abandon, but he can see now that there are individual brush strokes. The black runs on black in thick layers, reinforcing the arcs over and over. They’re meticulous, perfectly curved. Even where the paint drips seems to be by design.

Or maybe he’s reading too much into it