"You're trying to look into a window that isn't there", Black said as he gripped his shirt where his heart should be. "It's here."
"Yeah right. I think you have no heart. I had a mind once to give you mine", Red said, visibly sick and still drunk from the night before. He continued, "You're fabricating conclusions and marveling at them as if an abstract painting. You're turning me into whatever you like."
"You sick freak, you sick... freak...", stuttered Black, and reaching his arm out as if in slow-motion, to strike Red.
Fearing his own safety, Red walks out the door and feels it hit him in the ass. He hears glass breaking on the other side before he disappears.
The man on the inside flails his arms and grits his teeth, spits on things and writhes in his bed.
The next day is much like the one before. Black was sick this time and attempted to paint the other man's morality for a second time. He tried to deny he was obsessed, but knew Red would never come by again to see the painting.
He wanted so badly to kill Red. He never pondered the reasons why because he knew he was trapped in this room, trapped in his own undoing. The room was his mind.
He forced himself to believe what he saw, and the only thing he allowed himself to see were the paintings he would produce.