Ghost of Mine

For so long, I just stare at him. I look into his eyes and just get swept away. I try to tear my eyes away and force myself to paint, but my attempts are fruitless. I just can't take my eyes off of him – I don't want to.

I study his face, but not for the purpose of painting him. I just take him in. I feel myself float along with every line on his face, letting my gaze glide from the tip of his ear down to his chest.

He's wearing a loose, off-white shirt. One button is left open, showing off the tip of each of his collar bones. The hole in his throat where his collarbones reach towards each other is deep, and above, his Adam's apple is distinct, but small.

He lowers his head and looks down at himself, then back up. Can he see himself? Even when I couldn't see him, could he still see himself?

He's wearing tight, dark brown pants, made of flax. His legs look short, but the pants make them look lean and strong. His feet are bare and a bit dirty.

And that's all he's wearing. His hair is hanging loose around his face – shoulder-long and flat. His eyes are so big and innocent that they almost emit life. They almost seem to give off emotion, even.

I stare in amazement at those eyes – those dead eyes. I can see admiration in them, as if I fascinate him in some way. There's joy and relief swimming in those brown orbs as well. And then there's a twitch of pain – a brief tension tugging at the eyeballs and a darkness tending across the white of the eyes.

He is gonna be so hard to capture. Not only is his every feature so delicate and unique, but all the emotion running through his eyes is gonna be the hardest thing I've ever had to capture.

Because I have to capture it. If I don't, he's gonna keep haunting my mind and I'm never gonna be able to let him go.

I take in a quick breath, before I pick up a pencil and place my hand on the canvas, all without taking my eyes off of him. Frank. Franklin Anthony Iero III.

Without looking at the canvas, I run a pencil over it. Following the edges of his entire body, I make and outline of his pose. He's standing sturdily; both his naked feet nailed to the floor and his arms dangling loosely by his sides. I don't tell him to stand in any other way. I want to paint him, and me telling him how to stand doesn't make the painting reflect him.

I look at the canvas, realizing that the figure isn't as bad as I'd feared, and then I just run with it: I keep drawing him, looking equally as much at the canvas as on him. I aim to catch every detail about him.

The initial stress I felt when he first appeared is gone, and all I can do is just focus on his body. Once the outline of him is done, I switch to a thicker pencil to define some lines more. I keep switching pencils, almost getting too caught up in details, but also getting too caught up in him to notice.

When I start painting, I start at his feet. I paint the dirt and the blue blood veins that are protruding. I continue going up his body, covering my penciled lines with paint, getting each shadow on the canvas to match what's in front of me perfectly.

I can't quite call it reality; I do realize that. He's dead. I still have no idea how he died, but I know he's long gone. And yet, he's right here. He's showing himself to me to help me get him out of my head. He's helping me making the most perfect painting and finally putting my mind at ease.

As I paint the shadows of his face, I notice a hesitation in his eyes: the eyes I haven't painted yet.

I look back at the canvas and carefully paint a strand of hair over his face.

When I lift my gaze again, he's gone.

A sense of fear grips at my chest, making me feel like someone's put their hand through it and grabbed a tight hold of my lungs. My heart pounds and my gut twists.

I feel like screaming. I feel like yelling for him to come back; throw myself on to my knees and beg the empty air for him to come back to me. I need him here. I need him to help me let him go. He's all that I can think about: the perfect man.

I take a shuddering breath and look back at the painting. I feel like tearing it apart, but it's so close to finished – so close to perfect. There's only one thing missing: his eyes.