Chapter 1: Life, Unending

Lim stared at the canvas before him, colours smeared across the material in a failed attempt to create something beautiful. Pink and red were twisted together, curving into a forehead, following the delicate lines down the profile of a face before jutting out at the nose. 

He watched as his hands moved across the canvas bringing together varying shades of red and pink in hopes that eventually the picture would come together into something appealing. But more than that, he needed to prove that the creative block he was having was only temporary, that if he tried a little harder then his creativity would spark. Like a flash of light on a cold winter day, his artistry would flourish out like heat from a fire. It would be slow at first, consuming his entire body, until he felt almost feverish in his attempt to get his ideas out and onto the canvas. 

However, this feeling, this all-consuming urge to create had not hit him for some time. Instead, all he was met with was a shaking hand and random colours smeared over a wasted canvas. He would usually stay like this, sitting and staring at nothing, before finally getting angry at himself and burning the canvas in the end. He did not want to look at his failures and be reminded of his decline, how far he had fallen. 

The tremors always picked up by this point. The more Lim was unable to create the more his body shook. Almost like a joke, his body was mocking his inability. The brush in his trembling hand was spraying small splatters of deep pink over the stool and his easel. The more the room was covered in paint, the further his mind sank into self-depreciation.

Lim screamed, “AHHHHH!-”

He had tried his hardest to let out the agony from within his soul; however, once he had yelled, his chest still felt tight and his hands continued to tremble. Nothing changed after he bellowed, except he alerted those still within the house and soon a soft tap was heard from the door. 

“Sir, are you alright?” a soft and calm voice asked him. 

“Yes. I’m fine.” Lim responded. He did not turn towards the source of the voice. Instead, his eyes stayed on the canvas, glaring at the mess of paint in front of him. He stopped paying attention to the person in the doorway, irritated by their voice and the fact that they had not left yet. 

He stayed sitting on his stool and watched the canvas as if waiting for the paint smeared in varying hues across the profile to materialize. To become tiny little droplets of colour, coming off the canvas to twist and turn, recreating the image into something better. A finer subject, a different angle, better blending; overall he was just angry that he himself was not better. 

In a fit of furry, Lim turned his brush around in his hand and stabbed the hard wooden handle into the canvas. Puncturing a hole right where the forehead was, Lim yanked the handle downwards tearing the canvas open as he went. He was soon overtaken with emotions, dropping the brush and ripping the hard material with his hands instead. Grunting as he went, expending all of his energy destroying what he had just painted. 

After venting his feelings, hidden in the depth of his heart, he got up from the stool. When he left his studio, he was greeted by a silent and desolate household. The only sound was his heavy breathing, having expended almost all his energy destroying the canvas. Lifting his gaze to look out the window, he noticed the frame shrouded in darkness and only then realized what time it was. 

It was nighttime. That meant Lim had spent the entire day in that room, attempting to create something but ultimately destroying it in a fit of anger. He heaved a deep sigh and pushed his legs forward, gradually moving towards the stairs. He walked slowly, and with great effort, he picked up each of his feet to climb the steps before him. The hardwood underneath seemed impersonal and dreary, as if he was not walking towards his bedroom but rather death was escorting him to his final resting place. 

By the time he reached his bedroom door, his body ached from exhaustion. Lost within his destitute painting, Lim had not noticed his hunger until now. His stomach was rumbling in displeasure and he felt hollow. 

He laid down on his bed, not even bothering to take off his clothes or cover himself with the blankets. He fell into a restless sleep. 

It felt like countless images had passed along the insides of his eyelids; yet, when he came too and took in the world around him, he found himself in someone else's body. They were leaning against a doorframe, watching as someone frantically scribbled across a large canvas. Colours were spewed across it, mixing together to create a grand mosaic of greens and blues. It was an outdoor landscape, trees on the edge of the picture, and a babbling brook running more to the right. A pink sky closer to the horizon, showing the turning of time, and the hazy blue that filled the rest turning into dusk and eventually nightfall.

However, what struck Lim the most was the person painting. He was intimately familiar with their movements, their crazed brushstrokes and the paint that flung in every direction. As they haphazardly dipped their brush into a new colour, not bothering to clean it first before smearing it across the landscape. 

He could feel the wooden frame start to dig into his shoulder; however, the body never moved. They just leaned there, watching as Lim painted erratically. His limbs moved frantically as he tried his hardest to get the image out of his head. As if it would disappear if he was too slow, gradually fading until he was only left with an impression of the picture, and nothing of the image itself. 

In his frantic state, the dreary and dreamed Lim did not even register another person around him. He was so focused on the task at hand. His hands looked frail; however, the agile movements they were undergoing showed that his body had some undue strength to it. His frame was skinny and frail, especially when he got into a creative spree, similar to the one he was watching, he would forget to eat or drink for days at a time. 

His black hair was shaggy, hanging down around his ears, bouncing and tossing around as he moved between the table beside him and the canvas. The longer he was there watching the more frantic his limbs moved, almost as if they were working toward a culmination. However, what was waiting for him at that moment, he had no idea. The body he was in was calm; they were in no rush and seemed to be enjoying watching him paint. But his heart was racing. He was in a panic as he watched himself become more fervent. He knew that his body could not handle what he was doing to it, but he could only watch on as the obsession within to create took hold and pushed his body to its limits. 

Just as he was coming to the pinnacle, the body he was in finally moved. Slowly and methodically, they approached his back and called out his name. However, the person painting had not heard anything, completely and utterly engulfed in their own world. 

The person gently reached out a hand. Lim watched as the body he was in moved and their arms wrapped around him. When he was embraced, It was almost like he could feel the arms tightening around him - which seemed impossible. Yet, he could feel a heat radiate ever so lightly from his waist, the same position that the arms were wrapped around the frantic painting Lim in the dream. 

Hot breath on his ear as they spoke softly, “Lim, love. It’s time to stop.”

The person in their arms was startled. The brush moved slightly, smearing some pink into the blue sky. Dream Lim huffed at the distraction; however, once they broke their focus away from the painting and noticed the arms wrapped around them, he leaned back into their embrace. He reclined his head on their shoulder and closed his eyes, sighing. 

Dream Lim, “I missed you.” 

The Lim stuck within the extra body was dumbfounded by the words. But all he could do was watch as the person reached a hand up and ran it through his hair. The dream Lim spun in his chair, leaping into the other’s strong embrace and kissed him. 

Lim woke up with a start. His body was covered in sweat, and it was only then that he realized he had not changed his clothes before he went to bed. He contemplated going for a shower and changing, but ultimately he fell back onto the mattress, lost in his thoughts and the weird dream he had just had. 

Lim tossed and turned for a moment before he eventually dragged himself out of bed. He did not want to go back to sleep. He did not want to be near that dream again. It all felt too real to him; however, never in his life had he ever had someone get that close to him. Most people liked the idea of the eccentric artist until they had to live with one. 

Then they would ask when he was going to grow up; or when he would be willing to let them into his life, instead of always sitting in front of the canvas and painting. It was almost like he had married his job, and all his ex-partners had been mistresses. He made them feel special in the beginning but slowly his painting would take over and consume his life - especially when his creativity hit and an idea would pop into his head. 

Most put up with it in the beginning when he was actively creating. He had become well known in the art circles and had lots of paintings sold in high-end galleries. Yet as the years slowly ticked by and life chiselled away at him, his creating gradually waned until he was left as a husk of the man he used to be. 

Lim made his way downstairs. He went by the kitchen, taking an apple from the fruit bowl, washing it quickly and then taking a bite as he made his way to his studio. Sitting back down on the stool, he stared at the empty easel, lost in his thoughts. 

He tried not to think about the intimate actions between himself and the mysterious man from his dream but rather on the landscape he had been painting. He was able to recall a few details from it, but it was more the colours that he had used. 

He had yet to finish eating the apple when he threw it aside and got up to grab a blank canvas from the edge of the room. He placed it on the easel and picked up the brush strewn on the table from his fit yesterday. 

He topped up the colours with fresh paint on the table beside him and then dipped his brush in the blue. He watched as the paint slowly consumed the bristles, swallowing them and covering the fibres completely in the colour he had chosen. Lifting the brush out of the paint, he brought it to the canvas and started smearing it. 

His actions picked up and soon he was moving at the pace he once used. His mind was blank, solely focusing on the painting in front of him. Blue filled the majority of the canvas before he switched brushes and traced along the horizon, trees started to take shape and jut out. 

Soon the creek started to take form, and stones appeared at the bottom of the flowing water. Sprouting along the edges of the stream were reeds and long grass, a fox hidden within drinking the water was added on a whim. The colours of the canvas called for more orange and red and so Lim obliged. 

The landscape was starting to take shape, but similar to yesterday Lim had no concept of time. He had noticed that by the time he added pink to the sky the sun had already risen. By the time the trees were done, the cooking auntie had arrived and breakfast was made. Now that the stream of water was flowing across the canvas it was lunchtime. He had gone an entire half a day without moving, completely taken by his current task as the rest of the world ceased to exist for him. 

There was movement behind him; however, Lim was too focused to bother checking what it was. The noise was getting closer to him, but nothing about the other presence registered for him. Like the person was something he had come to except and so when they approached he did not feel surprised at all. Similar to how a ghost sneaks around in the shadows, you don’t quite know if it is real or not. 

A warmth spread over his body, starting from his back like a chest had been pressed against him, embracing him. A hand slid down his arm, fingers stretched out until they reached his wrist. Slowly and gently wrapping around his delicate, pale skin and bringing his hand to a stop. The bridge of their nose rubbed against his cheek as they softly spoke into his ear, 

“Lim, love. Go get something to eat.” 

The heat sank into his flesh, travelling through his veins and sinking deep within his bones. It was like a warm breeze on a cold day; how the heat of a fire would penetrate deep within your body, heating you from your limbs inward, making sure no part of you was left cold. 

It was a warmth Lim had not felt for a long time, a warmth he had forgotten even existed. Without realizing it, Lim leaned back into the warmth. The chest behind him tensed for a moment before it tightened its grip on the other, bringing him closer to their body. 

“Mn. I can’t just yet, I just got started.” Lim said back languidly. 

A smile was evident on the other person as they tried to be firm, “What is this just started, you have been here for half a day.”

Lim seemed to realize something was wrong at this moment. The only other person in the house should be the cooking auntie; the voice that floated into his ears was deep and rich and one that should belong to a man.

Though the warmth they brought him was a nice reprieve, he startled nonetheless and spun around only to find the room behind him empty. He turned a complete circle and yet there was no one else in the room. He could not help but furrow his brows in confusion and instinctively touch his wrist. The warmth and feeling of their fingers were still evident on his skin. 

His heart started pounding as an anxious feeling rose in his chest. 

What was that just now?!

Glancing around the room one last time, not believing his senses that there was no one else there with him, he walked out and went towards the kitchen. His stomach grumbled in protest, and having been distracted from his painting, he realized just how hungry he was at this point. 

The cooking auntie was startled when she saw Lim enter the kitchen and hurried to warm up some food for him. He had not come to eat lunch in a few weeks; instead of cooking full meals for him she always made sure to have small containers with food in them in the fridge. However, she was always the one to throw them away after they had gone bad. He rarely ever ate food recently, wasting away to a fraction of his former self. 

He ate the porridge that was heated up for him from breakfast, which he did not mind the light and easy meal. Quickly finishing his bowl, he went back to his studio before the remainder of his inspiration vanished. 

He spent the rest of the day painting; however, due to the incident at lunch, he was not completely comfortable in the room anymore and so he did not focus all of his attention solely on the canvas as he did before. Although, for this reason, he was able to hear his stomach grumble when supper came around. He was no longer able to ignore it and so got up to find food from the fridge. Taking out a small container, he ate everything before returning to his studio. 

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By the time he had finished his painting, the sky had already changed as grey and black hues seeped in, stealing away the vibrance of the day. His clothes were covered in paint. However, he did not seem to notice the state he was in, feeling ecstatic that he had finally finished a single painting! It had been far too long since he had not ended a painting session in anger and ripping apart his canvas. 

He stood before his coloured landscape and could not help the smile that spread across his face. He put down his brush and noticed the splotches all over his hands. The fresh paint from today was the most noticeable, but Lim brought his hand up to his face and noticed the dried paint from days past. 

He honestly could not remember the last time that he had taken a bath. Usually, he stayed in his studio until his anger manifested and he could no longer contain it before stomping up the stairs and falling into his bed to sleep - only to start the process all over again the next day. 

However, staring at his accomplishment, he felt a warmth spread from his chest. He had finally finished something, and it was time that he took care of himself. Once he entered his bedroom he slowly undressed and made his way to the bathroom. 

The water was warm, soon filling the entire room with steam. Within the haze, Lim felt life flowing back into his limbs, as if he could finally feel them after years of believing they had long since stopped working. He ran his hands through his damp hair, scraping his fingers over his scalp. 

The steam wrapped around him as it twirled inside the room. He used to find hot showers suffocating; however, today, he relished in the burning heat, as if signalling to himself that he could still feel. He had washed his hair first and slowly spread the suds over his body, making sure to scrub and get all the dried and old paint off of him. 

He thought he could hear a laugh from amongst the haze. It was a deep and melodious voice, pleasant to the ears, a voice that made Lim want to listen to it talk for hours. Although his first response to the sound was a pleasant reaction, his body soon froze the next moment. Fear gripped his heart, and his body tensed. He could feel fingers ever so lightly dance across his skin. It was such an intimate gesture, like a lover helping him wash up quickly so they could go to sleep. 

“You never check under your arm.” The deep and rich voice whined. Lim, startled and heart-pounding, for some reason, lifted his arm. Sure enough, old, dried paint was smeared there, the only place still left on his body that was dirty. 

His heart never calmed down but instead started beating faster. 

How did they know?! He screamed in his head. 

The steam from the shower made it worse. Lim could not see anything in the bathroom, and although he did not feel like there was another person in the room with him, he had just felt something touch his body. 

“Remember to dry your hair! I don’t want to sleep on a wet pillow tonight...” The voice trailed off, getting further away from him as if the person had just finished their shower and were walking towards their bed.

Lim finished up quickly and turned off the water. Before leaving the bathroom, he could not help but bring his hands up and towel dry his hair one last time. He had no idea why he was listening to the voice in his head, but he could not help his hands, as if they were possessed, doing it on their own. 

Back in his room he looked around and could not find anyone hidden within. The panic in his chest subsided, and he laid down on his bed. Surrounded by the large and empty room, a sudden surge of loneliness washed over him. He pulled the blankets tighter around himself, closing his eyes, he let his overly exhausted body slip into slumber. 

His dream that night was filled with laughter and merriment. He was sitting on a stool with an easel in front of him. Sunlight cascaded in the room through the large windows that took up the entire wall, falling on the face of a man sitting in a chair opposite Lim. His hands were moving slowly and methodically, trying his hardest to get the repetition correct and not mess up his portrait of the other. His heart was beating in his chest, and a warmth spread throughout his body. It was a similar reaction to what he had felt that morning. 

He watched the picture in front of him slowly take form: lean cheeks and an angular chin, a defined jawline that was brought up to high cheekbones and a tall nose. His eyebrows were thick lines across his face; however, his fine and delicate eyes underneath them seemed to shine even more because of them. His pale skin was accented by his dark hair that clung lazily to his face, half of it pulled back into a bun. 

Watching the man in front of him come to life on the canvas Lim’s heart skipped a beat. 

Who was this man?!

 

He woke up in the morning to his stomach rumbling. He quickly splashed some water on his face to pull himself out of his dream and went to the kitchen, grabbing some fruit and making his way into his studio. 

He noticed the canvas by the wall, paint spread across it into a landscape. He felt the corners of his mouth pull upwards; he had finally created something no matter how mundane and trivial it was, he had still managed to finish a painting. 

He pulled up a fresh canvas and sat down. His hands moved, spreading paint across the material. He did not pay much attention to what he was creating, and soon a profile of a person emerged in the colours. However, this time it did not send him into a fit. He had remembered the person from his dreams and slowly adjusted to their features. Creating an outline in yellow and colouring it in with pinks and oranges. Shading under his eye and around his nose, the colours merged to create a vibrant spectrum. 

He had not noticed the change outside his window, the sun that had just risen when he entered the studio was now high in the sky, resplendent rays shining down on the world, cascading into his studio to lighten it. He did not need to look behind him to know that someone was standing in the doorframe watching him paint. He felt comforted by this presence and knew they were here to drag him to go eat. 

“I’m almost done! I can’t leave right now.” Lim said out loud to the room. A smile grew across his face as he thought before speaking up, “Or you could feed it to me.” 

A small chuckle escaped him. Yet, no movement preceded his words, only silence was left in the studio. Lim furrowed his brows; he was sure someone was there, they would always come at lunch to drag him away before allowing him to return. Sometimes when he was deep in his creation and could not leave, they would bring food to him and feed him bites. 

Didn’t they?!

Lim placed his hand on his lap and turned his upper body around to look at the door. Yet, it was closed, and there was no one leaning against the doorframe as he had expected. There was no one else in the room with him. He was confused for only a moment before the door opened and the cooking auntie peered into the room. 

“Did you say something?” She asked. 

Lim stared at her for a long time, confused. “Are you the only one here today?”

“Of course.” She responded, surprise evident across her face. When was there ever anyone else in this house?

“Ah! Nevermind. I guess… I am hungry. I will be out shortly for some lunch.” Lim said back. He felt awkward after her response, why did he actually ask that question?

He stayed sitting and staring at the portrait in front of him for a while. After some time, he slowly got up and went to the kitchen for his meal. He quietly ate it while lost in his thoughts. This voice, this presence, what was it? 

For the next few days, Lim ate his meals, showered before bed, and slept well. He went about his days enshrouded in warmth as if an invisible hand was guiding him through the motions of his life. Every day he would still go into his studio, but the violent outbursts had stopped and the cooking aunt watched as the colour of Lim’s skin changed from a sickly hue to a vibrant shade, usual for those who are alive and full of vigour - it was as if Lim was coming back to life right before her eyes. 

However, no one knew about the mysterious presence that only Lim could experience: a finger gently caressing down his abdomen, a flurry of kisses first thing in the morning, the tip of a tongue running down the outside of his ear, the warmth of a palm on his shoulder bringing him out of his painting, or a sweet and rich voice floating over softly, whispering gentle reminders. 

It almost seemed like a perfect setup for his eccentric life; however, the only downside was that Lim was sure it was not real. His heart was a mess in his chest every time he could feel the presence nearby, not necessarily in passion and not necessarily in fear. But rather an anxiety borne out of his own instability. 

Am I going mad?!

His fervour for painting had only increased at this moment. However, the only thing he seemed to paint these days was that face, over and over again. The room that used to be filled with empty canvas' was slowly filling up with painted pictures of a single man’s face. All along the outside of the room, placed edge to edge was a wall of the same countenance.  

Yet the more he painted and the more colours that blended together, the more he started to question his own reality. He was starting to have trouble focusing on his hands while he was painting and though his eyes showed him a finished end product that was in the shape of the ever-familiar face at this point, he had no way of knowing for certain that was what was actually there. 

As time moved on and he woke up each morning, as if reliving the same day over and over again, he had become scared. Waking up every morning was becoming the hardest thing for him to do, and he would begrudgingly swing his legs over the edge of the bed. Yet, that voice helped, and so did their warm fingers tracing a line down his arm, grabbing hold of his hand and pulling him from the edge. 

He swore there was a force behind these pulls, that he was not just reaching out to an empty room and getting off the bed himself. Yet when he looked desperately for this other person, he would never be able to find them. He had begun to wait for the deep voice to enter his ears and the hand that would eventually find him, pulling him out of his reverie. 

Lim got up from his stool, picking up the completed canvas from the easel and walking to the end of the line, placing the painting down. He stepped back and slowly ran his gaze along the line of pictures. Each was slightly different; either in colour or pose, they varied as his eyes swept across the room, each different from the one beside it. 

He could feel a shoulder brush against his; it had been a few weeks since the presence appeared, and by this time, Lim was used to it. He had almost come to expect it. He reached his hand down and grabbed their hand, intertwining their fingers. He stood there, hand slightly apart from his body, holding onto nothing. 

Though the body heat was real on his skin, he was positive at this point that the presence was only visible to him. Although visible may be the wrong word, apart from his dreams he can not say if he had ever seen it, but he had felt it many times and heard their deep voice bringing him back to life. 

It was like this presence was some kind of abstraction, an idea of a person; there was no real entity, only a shadow of a being, a phantom, something illusory. And though Lim could hold their hand and he could feel flesh gripping him in return, this person seemed not to exist. They were a fabrication of what Lim thought was his slow dissension into delirium.

The coldness that had made up his life until now had left him, his consciousness, hope and compassion rushing back to him. However, the numbness had not left, and maybe it never would. Although this relationship can only lead to nothing, that does not change anything.  

Standing before his art, unaware if the canvas’ before him were even the paintings he was seeing, or merely just colours grotesquely spread across the material. All he knew was that for the last two weeks, he had created, but at what cost?

“I love you,” Lim said aloud to the room. 

This should pass, right? 

 

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