Untold

From her birth, the girl is cursed.

The lines grow, one stroke at a time, swirling softly or straight and hard. Back and forth, back and forth, and finally a head makes its way onto the surface, or at least a faint outline.

 

The room is quiet, because otherwise nothing can get done; only the nearly silent hum of the computer and crickets chirping outside can be heard. The blinds go up and the window is opened; she wants to listen for the train. It hasn’t come yet.

 

She returns, and a neck is created; not as graceful as one would expect, but they rarely were. Smooth shoulders are created (umerus, the artist thinks), and then the breasts, waist, hips practically form themselves. It is the creation of something out of nothing.

 

There are fainting popping noises like fireworks in the distance; she pays them no heed and the lines curve to make the legs. The feet, the arms, they all come together, and finally a figure sits on the page; but not a person, just a vague outline.

 

From the other room, the TV drones on about something she doesn’t care about. The bugs outside form a sort of rhythm, and the lines extend again, flowing and creating smooth curls that will probably be her hair. In a flash, the hair is grown, and the eyes, lips, and nose are done; a sad, confused expression lies on the creation’s face.

 

Every line is drawn with care as she creates the clothes and the story of her drawing; for drawing it is, and she is its master.

 

Finally, she finishes, and smiles at her drawing, wondering what she could achieve, wondering what more can be created.

 

Then, a drop in the water that starts a flood, the pebble that starts the avalanche, everything breaks, and he comes in and tears the paper, hitting her, beating her, screaming at her.

 

He burns her sketchbook and she cries bitterly, because in an instant her creation – her daughter has been destroyed, and it is too sad to bear.

 

And the story of the long dark haired girl on the paper will never be told.

Author's Note

It's odd. I just stumbled upon this today and don't even remember writing it, yet I can tell around what time I was writing it, where I was at the time, and what my fears were around the time when I wrote it. Weird stuff.

Also, I hate categorizing. I have no idea how to classify my work.