Isaac's room was an exotic land of colour; every inch of wall space was covered with canvases, photographs and smudgy charcoal sketches. The contents of his desk slumbered under a blanket of chalk dust whilst his dirty clothes, piled in a corner, were all paint-spattered.
I edged in, feeling dull against he backdrop of beauty.
One wall always caught my attention instantly. From above Isaac's bed, where the wall was most busy, the same face stared at me, over and over. Same bright green eyes, same cascade of auburn hair, repeated endlessly. Sometimes in watercolour, other times in chalk or oil pastel, as if Isaac were a man possessed, recreating the same face incessantly.
Isaac followed the direction of my gaze.
"Yeah, that's Avery," he told me.
My eyes roved from picture to picture. What kind of love inspired such a tribute? When Isaac closed his eyes, was she all he ever saw? Love seemed like too heavy a burden to carry, especially when all I'd ever seen was the misery it wreaked.