Dried Paint

There is no changing a finished painting.

   She had always been good at painting. It was a rather convenient talent, because while she had a wide vocabulary, drawing out her points was much easier.

   At age 6, Artemisia had shown signs of being a great artist.

 

   World was a burst of colour, an abstract painting, a stroke of blue and gold with watercolours and a touch of pink acrylics, green pencils. Like the colour of insanity, they were never constant. Artemisia was fascinated. Fingers reach for indigo shades of oil paint and lines were drawn.

   'What are you drawing, Artemis?' Rene asked.

   'The world.' Soft fingers brushed through her hairs. Rene smiled, eyes watching the canvas and tiny hands bringing it into life.

   'You have an unique view of the world. It's beautiful, very colourful.' The girl stopped to look up to the woman. Wide grey eyes blinked.

   'Aren't your world colourful too, Rene?'

   'They are, but with different shades. More greens and yellows, buttercups and leaves in the spring, you know? The sunshine and white clouds and blue skies.'

   'That must be beautiful.'

   'It is. Pray tell, what makes your world so colourful?' Artemisia hummed, returning her attention toward her picture. Grabbing a brush and dabbing it on yellow oil paint, she drew a circle on the top right. They were thick, bringing with it traces of blue.

   'That is the sun,' she said, moving back and nodding. Rene smiled, leaning closer to the painting. She hummed, fingers just hovering above the newly created sun.

   'You brought blue with it,' Rene said, 'is there a reason for that?'

   'The sun is all things good,' the girl said, 'and it needs something to balance it, to counter its light.'

 

   She had always been perceptive. It was a rather surprising thing; her mother and father never paid much attention to their surroundings. She was able to piece everything easily.

   At age 7, Artemisia had shown signs of being a good detective.

 

   Nothing was certain, she was taught. Always make sure you made no mistake, or you will pay the price.

   Artemisia firmly believed these words, ones that Alton said to her. She looked up to him, because he was the most intelligent person she knew, and he was always the one who taught her about life in those mystery books.

   'The world is a balanced mix of good and bad, but what you see is what matters.'

   'Why?' she said.

   'Any good is not good if you don't think so,' Alton said, 'and any bad is not bad if you believe they aren't.'

   'But what about those who took others' life without any rights to do so? Are they not bad? How can I believe that they're not bad, if so many are wronged by that?' Alton chuckled, stroking the girl's head as they stared out of the balcony. The birdbath on the garden was full of small birds with slate head and gray bodies, yellow gracing their wings. There were five. Last time they had seen six.

   'One is missing,' Alton said, 'can you tell me where the sixth is?'

   'Eaten by a cat,' she said.

   'How would you know?'

   'There is a small tuft of feather under the tree,' she said, pointing at the said tree. Alton smiled and ruffled her hair. She looked up.

   'You got that right. See how much you can understand from your surroundings?'

   'Yep. But you didn't answer my question.'

   Alton looked up to the sky, the light blue and gentle morning sun gracing his sight. Warmth was streaming down, yellow dancing with the air and creating a glow and bringing everything into life.

   'There are many things that could contribute to that, my dear,' he said, 'you will understand in time. There are many things that I could not explain to you, too.' He looked at her, a small sad smile on his lips.

   'But I'll promise you this: one day I'll tell you everything you want to know. Deal?'

 

   Her imagination always strayed to the otherworldly. Rene would watch her, worry reflected in her eyes as her paintings grew to show more of the dark reality. Phantoms, eyes, gruesome features. But they always retained the colours, splashes of dark pink and little yellow daisies mixing into a chiaroscuro. Round and round and round that Rene could not separate the dark and the light.

   She was turning 14 and she knew much more than Rene would have liked, and the glint in those grey eyes told her that.

 

   Her curiosity was never about people. It was always humanity as a whole, and what she did was prod them, wondering what specific people would react to a tragedy, how many different reactions she would get. It was morbid, and Alton could only fend off the waves of panic and unease as she grew older. Perception would be her curse, as knowledge would draw Her in and she would be in trouble. And there was another thing, too.

   She never found the need to befriend anyone her age. She was so busy with the small but wide world she built for herself, growing colder to people and more apathetic every passing day.

   She was turning 15 and she was too calculating to bother with relationships. When she slept Alton wondered what will happen to her once they had to go, but when he brought it up she just shrugged and turned away.

 

   She was now 16 and not so foolish anymore. She now knew how to keep her world alight and her mind sharp. Her future was bright, only her formal education history tainting it. But her eyes saw the world in the colour of her eyes, gazing at the fire that consumed the painting. The spirit had lost its physical shell. Pink oozed into the deep red and orange like ink diluted into water.

   'It's over,' she said. The shocked people behind her she did not heed. Four teenagers approached her, a girl laying her hand on Artemisia's shoulder. Artemisia did not respond. The heat danced across her skin, too far to hurt but too close to not feel. Red and orange and yellow played with her gray eyes, and they no longer look gray.

   'We did it,' Akihito said, staring at the black remains of the canvas that hid behind the wall of fire, 'I can't believe we did it. This is too much like a dream.'

   'It's merely a vivid picture,' Artemisia said, gently touching the hand on her shoulder, 'I'm fine, Sayumi.'

   'I feel bad we burned down a masterpiece in front of collectors and important people, though,' he said. Toshiro shrugged, a sad smile on his lips.

   'It doesn't matter,' she said, 'we could always paint a new one.'

   And the water finally rained down to put out the fire. Artemisia did not mind the sudden coldness on her hair. Her eyes strayed toward the French windows, watching the aurora-like iridescent lights flaring in the sky. She knew what they were. Soft phantom hands grazed her face, lifting it to meet their smiling ones. They were nearly too faint to see, but she could still hear their whispery, familiar voices.

   We're so proud of you. We know you'll be great one day. We'll be close, don't worry, so close your eyes and walk forward knowing that we're by your side. Have faith.

   She tried to reach them, but her hand met empty air. They were going to a place they belonged, a place she couldn't enter.

   She needed them to continue on.

   Tears desperately clung to her chin, but the water was still falling overhead and they pulled them to their destination. She envied them for having a purpose, a place they should be going to. Everything she lived for was already gone, they had attained their peace, after all.

   'I think we all should rest, Artemisia,' Sayumi said, voice soft and gentle, 'it has been a rough week for all of us. Maybe you're in shock. Either way, think about everything else tomorrow after you sleep, okay?' Artemisia turned to see smiling faces. She stared at them before slowly nodding. Sayumi tugged on her wrist.

   'Good. Let's go home. The fire died and nearly everyone left in a daze. Come on, it should be safe.'

   Home. These were people that were strangers to her a week ago asking her to come home. What was home? She didn't know. A place where there were people she could confide in perhaps? That was an unfamiliar notion.

   She took Sayumi's hand and followed them.

   Home is another journey, but she is starting to understand friendship.

Author's Note

If you don't understand much, it's okay, since this is based on my NaNoWriMo novel, Things Not Seen.