Candy Eyes

Candace spent the evening in her studio. Working like crazy in the overwhelming acrylic and hardwood pencil shavings. This particular painting would be the fifth one she had to do today for clients. Candace swiftly brushes at the corner of the painting, tidying up the last line. Until her hand cramps. “Ow, Jesus!” she exclaims when her hand goes numb and knocks the water bowl and a pill bottle onto the floor. Candace glances at the colored mess, moving on with her brush stroke.

The pill bottle tumbled through the colored mess, rolling slowly, its label flashing the word ‘prozac’ like a silent, unsettling chant. Candace stood frozen, her eyes tracking it across the floor. Since her mothers death, the world has lost its color. The vibrant energy that once filled her room faded into something darker and eerie.

The rejection from a local art school had been the final blow. A cruel confirmation that the light she once painted with was gone, perhaps forever. The air was thick, oppressive, as if the shadows in her room had taken a life of their own. Closing in around her.

Every stroke of her paintbrush carried a discouraging weight, each movement dragged her into memories that she’d rather stay stuck in the past. Well, At least for now. Her mother had been her greatest supporter, always urging her to chase her passion, no matter how impossible it seemed. But now, with every brush stroke she crosses the canvas with. Candace couldn’t shake off the relentless grip of grief.

Candace glanced out the large bay window, where the street below pulsed with life. But inside her studio, everything felt as still as the hanging portraits on her walls. The portrait of her mother hanging on the wall, seemed out of place for a moment. She felt suffocated by a grief that seemed to cling in the air. Amid the silence, a faint memory resurfaced -- her mothers soft hand rubbing her cheek, calling her ‘candy eyes.’ .

The memory struck harder than she expected. Candace wiped away a tear, her hand trembling as she set her brush down. The room felt too quiet, too full of shadows. Maybe she wasn’t ready to paint again. Not yet.

Knock… Knock. The door announced.

Candace wasn’t expecting anyone. Friends and family learned to stay away because her grief kept her isolated. They stopped coming by weeks ago. But this knock – it felt different. Something about the pause in between each knock, threw Candace in a panic. Now, her hands are trembling. 

She wiped her colored hands on her apron and paused at the door to take a shaky breath. While being still, Candace looked through the peephole and only saw darkness – not a person in sight.

She opens the door slowly but surely. A man stood in front of her, tall and thin, with sharp features. His clothes looked as though they came straight from another time, worn but clean, and the ends of his coat were just a few inches away from the floor. His eyes were a pale blue, almost like glass, reflecting the light in an eerie way.

"Candace?" he muttered, his voice had an eerie melody behind it.

Candace stepped back, unsure of how he knew her name. “Yes?. Can I help you?”

The strange man smiled faintly. “I knew your mother. I’ve been meaning to come sooner, but I only just returned to the city.”

“I’m sorry,” Candace said slowly. “I don’t think I know you.” Candace felt her heart tighten. Her fists clenched, catching her sweaty palms from dripping.

The man stepped inside uninvited, his presence sending chills through the air. “She told me you would grow up to be an artist one day. I’m glad to say she was right.”

Candace felt uneasy. There was a strange sense of familiarity in a person she’d never seen before.

“How did you know my mother?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

The man walked slowly around the room, his fingers brushing the edge of a canvas as though he’s reaping the energy off the painting. “We were friends, in a way. She… helped me through a dark time. In return, I made her a promise.”

Candace’s breath caught in her throat. “What kind of promise?”

The man stopped in front of a painting Candace had done years ago — a portrait of her mother. His fingers traced the outline of her face, and crept back to the edge of the canvas.. “That I’d come find you when the time was right.”

Candace’s pulse quickened. “What are you talking about?”

He turned to face her, his eyes colder and sharper. “Your mother knew things, Candace. She had a gift, quite like yours.”

Candace countered, “A gift? She wasn’t an artist.” 

The man smiled and said,  “No, but she saw things. Things most people cannot see.”

Candace’s mind ran. Her mother was known to be intuitive, but this was something else.

Candace felt a chill run down her spine. “Who are you?”

The man stepped closer, his pale eyes locking onto hers. “I owe your mother a great debt. And now, I owe you.”

Candace backed away, her heart pounding. “I don’t need help. I’m fine.”

The man shook his head. “No, you’re not fine. You’ve lost your way, just like she said you would. But don’t worry. I’m here to fulfill your mothers dying wish.”

Candace’s hand instinctively reached for the door, ready to push him out. But the man’s expression softened, and for a moment, she saw something else in his face — a sadness, an emotion that caught her off guard.

“I’m not here to harm you, Candy eyes” he said softly. “I’m here because your mother wanted me to show you what you can’t see yet.”

Candace’s grip on the door loosened. “What can’t I see?”

The man gave the eeriest smile and said, “That the pain you’re feeling isn’t the end. It’s only the beginning.”

And with that, Candace opened her eyes with tears running down her cheeks and stroked the last line that finished her clients portrait.

Knock… Knock. The door announced.