When it was over, I took stock.
I abandoned life on the island, burned my portfolio, and travelled north to a city where I might live again as I please: anonymous, in a city of strangers. I could not admit it even to myself but events had disturbed my sense of self, my core, my understanding of what I know, who I am, what I do.
It was months before I grew calm enough to work again. One afternoon, overcast, April, apparently no different from another, I packed the crisp white pages of my workbook into my black bag, carefully checking my brushes. Four new sets lay in their silver box, awaiting my command.
Here is something true: there are those who are hunters, and those who are their prey. Celebrity holds nothing for the hunter, whose work is to be invisible and then to strike. For many years I had accomplished this goal on the island; by destroying my portfolio, I had consigned my quarry to oblivion.
But some things, like memory, are not destroyed by fire. And while I can no longer sit in the sun of my home ground, luring the innocent towards their destiny, I sense another future here, in this café. This grey city will be my home, and with this black ink I will make my mark upon its heart.
I will continue, at the edge of things, to play the game my gift demands: to reveal the hidden, to fill the blank pages of my sketchbooks with truth. They never know just what their likeness has cost them; such is the mercy of a clean kill.