Splatters

                I dipped my brush into the inky blackness of the oil paint I had put beside me, swirling it onto the dusty canvas in front of me. The curtains had been pulled back and the window, opened just a tad, let in a gentle breeze that tickled me as I tried to finish a masterpiece. My brush was dipped back into the paint, more strokes and swirls touched down onto the picture and I felt the colors coming into my mind. I took another brush and dipped it into a deep shade of midnight blue, circling the edges of the picture in it. I cleaned it and let its tip become full of a vibrant, but cold, gold and spotted the blue with stars in every shape and size.

         Leaning back, the picture stared blankly into the horizon, no emotion flowing out of it quite yet. I snapped my fingers and grabbed another, thinner, brush and dipped it into a chocolate brown color, mixing in some black and gold. Stroking it onto the canvas, I began dipping brushes into an even brighter rainbow of colors. Silvers, golds, blues, greens, browns, yellows, and reds flashed in front of me as I sat on my stool, barely conceiving what time of day it was let alone if it was time to leave.

         Giving a “tsk” of annoyment I stroked some of the chocolatey brown into the painting, mixing it with a small ribbon of black and gold. Every brush possible littered the table in a miasma of colors and sizes ranging from small to extremely large. I grabbed a few more brushes gilded in different colors and finally stood up, satisfied at what I had, or attempted to, create.

         The figure in the painting was standing against a sky of deep sapphire spattered with golden stars and milky ways. The dark shadows of a hill and some forestry deepened into more blue, mixing with the lighter blue and green of the grass. Overhead, a silver moon shone and illuminated the figure of the woman sitting on the grass beneath an oak tree. Her dark, almost black, chocolate hair hung over her shoulders where a stunning silver and sapphire dress hung, painted with the same glowing stars that flew overhead. She sat with her head on her arm, looking up at the sky dreamily through her glasses as another figure, male, held her in his arms.  He wore a regal coat of dusky blue, complete with silver and ivory buttons to match. He leant his head on hers and stared up at the same sky, both of them tangled together in a mess of blue and silver.

         Far past the couple, in a small grove of trees, another woman sat. She had her head in her arms, hidden in the shadow of gnarled birches, tangled hair choking her. Her dress of emerald green had been ripped to shreds and her wrists were wound in cream bandages. She looked in pain, with only one pale sliver of moonlight showing her to the world. Around her a pack of wolves had gathered and had lain down beside her as if to comfort her. She was the broken side of the picture, the part that I had wanted to fix. This was supposed to be a picture about love, not pain.

         Then again, this was about love. This mangled and beautiful painting was filled with love. The woman who falls in love with the wrong person, who finds that they love someone else, who suffers day by day knowing that she can never be with the one she loves. Eventually, I think, she’ll figure out that she must move on. But can she? I feel the radiations of her pain hit me like a brick wall and I stop and think, dropping my paintbrush onto the wooden floor. What if she never realizes that life can be better? “Am I supposed to be happy?” She must be saying that. I sat on my stool for a long time, until night turned into a blaring dawn.

         Getting up, I splashed my name quickly across the bottom and put my supplies away. I grabbed my backpack and, just as I was to the door, I turned around and stared into the painting and swore I had seen a smile painting the moon’s jesting face. Smiling sadly, I grabbed the painting and watched it, imagining the characters moving. I saw the girl and boy stand up and kiss and the girl in the woods take a sharp hunting knife from her dress pocket, holding it to her neck.

         I stared in horror as crimson splashed the page and dropped the painting, the redness of her blood staining my hands. I backed away into the corner, shaking and gluing my eyes to the picture. It lay on the wood flooring, smeared with red. I heard the wolves howling and I could see her limp body on the ground, splattered in her life, her brown hair flared about her pale face. Her emerald dress made her remind me of Christmas, smeared with blood as it was. I picked up the painting and put it back in hopes of it returning to normal.           

         Nothing changed. She was still dead. The couple was still under the tree, ignoring and unseeing of the horror that had been committed but meters from them. I slid to the floor and sobbed. It was all I could do for the girl. The painting lay askew on the easel and I picked it up again, stashing it in my closet and crying. Why had the girl’s death affected me so much? I wiped my hands off on my pants and got back up shakily, whimpering. Grabbing my backpack and heading to the door, I hoped that I could fix the painting later or at least make another. A happier one would be nice.

         But the happier one would be a lie.