The Prophecy Is A Lie

I worked away at the easel, attempting to lose myself in it. It was helping, but each time I got in too deep, I was drawn back by the statement: The prophecy is a lie.

A lump formed in my throat each time the words resonated in my mind. I paused when I was done and assessed my new painting. Today, I had chosen liquid painting, the art of capturing any liquid in a painting. The liquid I had chosen to paint came out better than I had anticipated—I was rusty, after all.

But the liquid wasn't water or juice spilled onto the floor. This liquid was of a peculiar kind, one that hardened the lump in my throat the longer I stared at it.

Light from an unknown source shone on the viscous neon-green liquid on the surface. Like in my nightmares, it looked alive on the paper as well. A large needle flashed in the periphery of my mind, and I got up abruptly. My heart was running laps in my chest, trying to escape my ribcage.

The prophecy is a lie.