"Forgive him."

Morthika speaks upon his absence. Her pillar. Doubts. Enigma?
She glances upon the stained door panels. Relinquish in agony, as pale memories resurfaces.

"Who would have thought...?”

Settled herself, on the creaked floors, she set alight. Colored candles filled the room, like Wonka.
"Metthany...” she muttered. Flours of glitter filled the floor, as she gazed. Metthany loves them.
Her angel in disguise, yet a distant memory. Morthika scribbled upon the glitters.

"M..E..T..T..H..A..N..Y.."

Shades of blacks and whites discolored her visions. Paintings of childhood, friendship and jealousy.
The latter, she didn't anticipate. Everything was blurry then, as it is now. The cost of friendship was expensive than she thought. A burden she would carry with her - to the grave.

Metthany was as fake as a ghost and as real as an illusion. Yet, Morth celebrated their friendship like the Mardi gras. He was the best companion she'd ever had, so she thought.

The attic would come alive every night. The artistry of Morth and her bond's enigma, lighted every dark patches across the room. She would divulge in morbid paintings upon Metth's interest.
Metth isn't just a persona, but, a living cell inside Morth's twisted paranoia. Yet, he's breathing and living off every piece of creation Morth superbly displayed.

As nights passed on, Morth took an unequivalent turn on her expressions. Uncharacteristic portraits left unwanted. A sign of age, perhaps? Metth noticed this. It bothered him, and his patience is wearing. His calls for Morth's talents were left unattended. Metth feed on Morth's expressions.
He lives and breathes on them.

Poor Metth. Alone and uncared for. Perhaps, Morth had "another" she wouldn't wish to share.
On a graying night, he came to life. Pranced around and littered the floors with glitters. Splashes of paint vandalized upon the doors. Scattered pieces of paintings scaled the floor. One of which was his.

Morth shockingly entered the attic. Baffled, perhaps fuming. She pleaded against Metth to discontinue his antics, but to no avail. He carried on without reasoning. All he ever wanted was Morth's colors, visions - attentions. But, she wasn't the Morth he personified. She literally "morphed" with the art she carved upon. Seeing her beloved creation tearing him and her works apart, she grieved. In a blind moment, she scooped her canvas of Metthany.

"Sorry...”

Metthany, an expression, could only blink a tear. His hopes dashed and all. How could she? His enigma and pillar. Lighted candle in one hand, she set alight the painting. Every piece of Metth diminished with the painting. His life, burnt upon him. Morth teared in anguish. His destiny and fate. Was it? What was she thinking? Metth screamed in agony till the colors fade in.

A fading candle dimmed as she lied in shadows. It was dawn. The attic was still in a mess. Morth came to consciousness. Little energy left, she stared upon. A canvas in one hand, she smiled. The portrait of Morthika and Metthany.

"Burn Metthany, burn...”