The carpet cushions my skin as I lie sprawled, belly-down in the lounge, a purple pencil crayon in hand and a half-coloured picture craving to be finished. I contemplate smudging some blue over the purple, which could be done by sharpening a pencil and collecting the small shards of remnant colour on the tip of my finger and rubbing them into the page; the effect would be assuredly mind-blowing (past experience attests) but that would mean getting up and finding a sharpener. Nah—too comfy; I’ll just try some blending. Gently I move the purple tip across the dress on the page, and then colour some blue into the creases and along the edges. I am pleased...but the girl’s face. Yellow never worked for skin; maybe if I use a brown pencil very softly, that’d look a little better—a bit more like my skin. Maybe some carefully contoured pink, too. Yes. That’d work. A tear plops onto the page, and another—I carry on colouring; it’s the crucifixion part of the story. I always cry here. Peter was speaking—a witness to the cross. How could they have done it? I’d have to wait until the tear-blobs were dry before colouring those parts of the page—the best bit of the record is still to come; they’d be dry by then.
