Free The Painting by Ryan Casey

matter?”
    Reginald’s wide eyes burned into Donny’s. “If you want my help, it matters.”
    “Yeah. Yeah, they were oak. There was… there was long, green grass. No—it was yellowing. It looked dry; void of life. And…” He held his eyes tighter together and tried to picture the intricacies of the painting. “There was a fence. A tiny fence. I think the artist must’ve been at some sort of house because—because of the shadowing on the grass in front.”
    Reginald sighed. “What about the figures?”
    Tap tap tap.
    Donny opened his eyes, the skin on his arms tingling. “Did I mention the figures?”
    “Donny,” Reginald said. “There are always figures.”
    Donny gulped. “Well, there were six of them. Six silhouetted figures. But then… when the boys appeared in the house—the little boys—the number of figures changed. There were… there were three figures and three boys.”
    Reginald’s eyes twinkled. “The boys appeared in the house?”
    “Yeah, they… it was as if they were tormenting me. Messing around with my head, or trying to get me to see something. I don’t know.”
    Reginald scratched his beard, flakes of dandruff snowing towards the carpet. “Right. Right, that does change things.”
    “Is—is it a problem?”
    “No,” Reginald said, raising his arm. “No, it isn’t a problem. In fact, it should be exactly the opposite. If reality was beginning to merge between the gaps, then it means you have a stronger chance of getting back.”
    Donny nodded, acknowledging the words but barely understanding them. “Who were the boys?”
    Reginald’s eyelids twitched. “They’re… they’re linked to the figures. Nobody knows who the figures are, but they are always there, and they manifest in different ways. Our governments deny they exist. We call them The Watching.”
    We’rewatchingwe’rewatchingwe’rewatching.
    “Are they the ones responsible for the gaps?”
    Reginald shifted up from his chair, scratching the back of his neck. “We just know that they’re watching. Are you ready?”
    “Ready?”
    Reginald grabbed his green raincoat from the hook beside the doorway. He picked up a jumper by his side and tossed it over to Donny, the dust clouding around him as it landed in his hands. “I believe I know of the place in the painting. I can take you as far as the edge of the woods, and then you’re on your own from there.”
    Donny looked down at the jumper, wide-eyed. He was helping him?
    “You’re going to have to wear that. If a guard approaches us, you stay silent and you let me talk. If a guard asks to see your chip, you tell him you’re a second-gen.”
    “Second-gen?”
    “Some people have bad reactions to the chip. Made them exempt from… Oh, does it matter? Just get your jumper on and follow me.”
    Donny fumbled with the dusty grey jumper and pulled it over his neck, the material itching his skin as it bagged around his arms. He stood up and walked over to the door.
    Reginald held his hand out and stopped him. “Oh, and if they tell you to surrender, you run. Even if they shoot you right there, it’s better than the ordeal they’ll put you through if they catch you.”
    Donny nodded in acknowledgement. “Thank you, for—”
    “I didn’t help you. I never met you. You’re just a… a state of mind that helped me get over my wife. Now, let’s get you back to your girlfriend so you can hide that ring under the cushion after all.” He opened the door and the bright light from outside filled the hallway.
    Donny took a final look around the lounge area—the fireplace, crackling away, the indented leather sofa where the Lynchian Alsation dog had sat, the photographs on the wall of Reginald and Manny Bates.
    “Do I get to say goodbye to Yelp?”
    Reginald shook his head. “From this moment onwards, you never met Alice, okay? It’s just you. The more people that know about you, the worse. Keep her quiet. Okay? She loves that dog. Don’t do anything to