Finished The Last of us Part II not too long ago, also did a review, which put me in the mood to do something post apocalyptic. The artwork here, however, isn’t full of action, blood or guts. It’s a contemplative piece, and I really wanted to get inside the head of that character.
Art by Robin Olausson
https://www.artstation.com/artwork/eaa1ZP
Robin’s Artstation profile
https://www.artstation.com/robinolausson
DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what is done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time, and keep it as raw as possible. If I decide to publish later, all of these will go through formal editing.
The candles’ heat reached far enough. His kneecaps felt their breath, more than the midday sun beating down outside, the inch of water on the floor enough to chase away its warmth.
Drip, drip.
Shoes still wet, drops being called back to their home. Ripples distorting his face. That was fine. He wanted to look elsewhere. Couldn’t stand the sight of himself, anyway. Thank God for all the broken windows.
Her, damn it. Her. Focus.
Everything was calm. Why couldn’t he focus? He held the photo differently, switched hands, right overlapping left this time. Maybe it would feel better, feel right.
Still his gaze ventured past it, down, straight down, as if the mud on his tattered shoes held something more beautiful, more worth his time. Of course they didn’t. Just this moment, just this face, he wanted to dwell on now.
Drip.
His body tensed. It was a sledgehammer on tin. He felt it, too. The middle of his chest is where it pressed, acting like a magnet to attract everything behind his ribcage.
He held his breath, anticipating the next one.
He let it out, and, thankfully, it was all he heard.
Four flames. He tried to find significance to that number. They’d been together for more years. She’d been gone twice as many days. The truth was that there wasn’t any significance. No meaning, just like the flowers gathered around her beautiful half body. They had been the only kind he’d found outside, ordinary.
Three flames.
A wisp of smoke drifted from a stump. Plenty of wick left. The box of matches in his front pocket writhed. He looked at his shoes, almost dry now. His reflection he could see if he wanted, but he looked everywhere but there.
He got to his feet, cold fingers of water seeping through his shoes. He moved before they became too strong, placing the photo in his hands on the shelf.
Index finger and thumb dug in his pocket, pinching the box of matches. When had his pants gotten so tight? He hadn’t eaten in nearly a week.
Salt patches on his jeans flaked as he moved his legs to give his fingers more room.
There. He had it.
She looked at him, deeply, and he didn’t want to blink. He wanted to match her endless stare. But that day it had been hard to keep her eyes open. This shot was a miracle. Between the sea bringing a storm of foam and sand and the sun piercing every cloud, she hadn’t been able to muster more than a smile. He felt his own then, and it hurt, a face of stone that wasn’t designed for such expressions.
A push on his back forced him a step. A cold wave. Smaller waves splashed across the floor. Something metal outside groaned.
Two candles.
He waited for the wind to pass as if it could carry his position to those who sought him. He stood as still and as dead as everything else in the room.
Then her face, a second face, looked up at him, the one he had held seconds ago. Colors deepened, then darkened as it slipped beneath the surface. An inch turned into a thousand feet. He picked it up. It felt like rice paper in his hands, and he hated that his thumb had landed over half her face. He couldn’t lift it, not yet. He still had the memory to complete it.
He squeezed his other hand to assure himself the matches were still there. The dryness of the box, the sharp, unworn edges he loved, and he found that sensation on his face again, but this time it didn’t hurt.
His shoe found a crack in the ground two more steps toward her. Droplets flew, broken glass, a fractal that replicated to a million million pieces, like the one that had …
He closed his eyes, his entire head. He didn’t want to see, smell or hear. But his hands were occupied. A spatter of gravel, on wood, on paper. On her.
He opened his eyes.
One candle. Its light caught her hair first, flickering to her chin, then cheek. Eyes. The tallest one. The proudest. Lavender? He hadn’t read the box before tearing it open, couldn’t smell it through the snot that filled his nose.
He knelt before her, wiped the few droplets from her face, cupped his hand around the remaining candle until it was brave enough to hold its own.
Schnick.
A dead one. He tossed it aside.
Snap.
The bottom half of the second he kept between his fingers, inching them up to the splintered part where he could really dig them in, only dropping the match when he felt blood.
The third one roared. The blaze caught him off guard, but he held on, like the Roman candle that had almost taken his face off back in … He stared into that light, that sun, until it doubled and tripled in his vision. He’d light those fucking candles with them if this match wouldn’t.
The flame was hungry, quickly eating the kindling it was meant to, and he hurriedly lowered it to the candle with the longest wick, fingers submerging into the hot wax, waiting, hoping.
“A seventy eight?” A hearty laugh. “You don’t know shit about cars, do you?”
The voice was an earful of more of that broken glass, and it forced him to the ground. He never looked away from her, that single candle giving him just what he needed.
He crawled to the opposite door, away from the voices. Away from her.
Boots trampled grass, slurped mud. Metal on metal. A sound he knew too well.
The grass gave him shelter, escape.
His hands were empty, a smudge of dark and light on his thumb, but he had to keep moving. He pressed it into the dirt like the rest of his fingers, and pulled himself forward.
The candle’s heat he couldn’t feel, just the earth. The distance.