The Painter's Eyes

I stared at the ashes, surprised. They lay scattered across the mahogany table in the most artistic sort of way, next to the cigarette butts. Some of them had rolled on top of the palate of big, round dollops of red, green, blue and black due to the soothing breeze that blew in past the silk curtains through the window facing the park. And the paintbrushes, tied in a neat stack with an elastic band, rested at one corner. But the canvas was empty. It seemed as if he was lacking an idea.
The whole place was a work of art. It had the touch of a maestro.  However, it was punctuated with only some furniture- a bed, a bed-side table, a steel wardrobe, two gigantic wooden bookshelves, two chairs, a refrigerator, a waiter-filter and the table I just mentioned, and that was it! Basically there was no room for furniture, for the whole place was over-crowded with paintings, lots and lots of paintings.
As I examined them and the signatures below, I found a certain pattern to it. His ones were the ones on the floor, arranged like domino pieces against the wall. And the ones that hung on the walls were by renowned painters around the world. Some were relics, made by painters I have only read about in history books.  And some had the strokes of a newbie; I could tell for I was one now.
I walked around the so-called living room, and made my way to the dining space, which was just a space with more paintings on the floor with the new addition of a refrigerator and a water filter. Potted plants hung from every wall, and the air was sweet with the fragrance of rare species of orchids and some other flowers I could not recognise. The dining space made way to a tiny kitchen to the right and another room to the left, containing the only bed. Loitering around in someone's house when they are not home is actually interesting, although the knowledge that the owner would be home soon is always at the back of your head.
The man had little furniture indeed, but their quality was epic, made from the finest of mahogany and teak. I scrutinized the bookshelves; what a collection they bore!  When I could finally pull myself away from it, I shifted my attention to the bed-side table, and my amazement shattered. It was as if I was bitten by a cobra, right where my heart was, and the poison was slowly spreading through my veins. I gulped and walked towards the photo frame on the table.
It was a familiar face, too familiar to be true, an exact replica of mine, except for the eyes. Same oval-shaped face, same earthy complexion, same smile, same lips, same cascade of raven black hair, but the eyes had a gleam to them. A sparkle that was unknown to me, for the eyes that I saw every morning were dull and vacant. The eyes in the photo were full of love and kindness and everything nice, and the ones I looked at every day were just two black pools of betrayal, anger, hatred and reality. They told the story of a woman, a woman who had faced the bitterness of society, who was left all by herself, alone, by no one but the man she loved, to raise THEIR daughter in a world so cruel with a billion unanswered questions. Why did he still have her photo?
The poison had reached my eyes, it needed to escape. But a voice stopped them, a deep, gravel-like voice. 'That is from a long time back. We were pretty close back then.' He said as if he knew me, and I knew he did. I turned around, and there he was. For the first time in 16 years, I saw him. The poison was burning my eyes, but I could not let it out so I looked away.
'You have my eyes,' he said slowly. I looked at him. He was right, unfortunately.
'I'm sorry. I should leave,' I said quickly, my voice slightly breaking.
'No, please stay. I'll ask Shambhu to get us some tea, and we could talk,' he said. I saw Shambhu, the only man who stuck with him, tolerated his arrogance and ego ever since he could remember, the man-servant who had unlocked the door to his flat for me, standing behind him, tears trickling down his cheeks. I did not know what to say, and he was still looking at me. Did he feel how I felt?
'Come on,' he gestured as Shambhu rushed to get our tea. I followed him to the living room once again and watched him walk towards the empty canvas. He took a paintbrush out of the stack, and dipped it on the black dollop. He then made a swift stroke right in the middle of the canvas and stared at it intently, craning his neck.
'What's that?' I asked, my first ever question to him.
'An eyelash,' he answered.