Painted Love

A story with many different meanings, focusing on a skewed perception of love.

This was one of those luminescent nights, with a full moon that haunted his retinas behind their thinly veiled armour. As it cascaded through the window, it illuminated every crevice and canyon between them, accentuating the darkness of the shadows against the velvet glow of their skin. As he surrendered to the moon’s plea for attention, his eyes landed on her- a view he had almost forgotten. He was infatuated by how she radiated in the moonlight while she remained oblivious to her serene beauty.

Though cautious and hesitant, his lustful eyes began to wander out from behind their cages. He busily poured over her untouched skin, lingering on every curve and dip of her silhouetted body. With only pained control, he resisted the urge to gently mould his fingers around her porcelain- stained waist. He foolishly believed that is what would ruin her ethereal presence. So he limited himself to innocently stencilling the air that encompassed this goddess, exploring the surface of her anatomy that had become so foreign to him. He watched as his fingers danced over every definition in her skin, allowing his hands to turn into a painter’s- her body, his masterpiece.

Escaping the realms of reality, his fingers drew to serve his greedy eyes, sketching her desirable features with a selective eye. Too soon, he had lost himself in a world of vivid shapes and boundless imaginations. Her body, used like a ragdoll’s, was being twisted and morphed- forced to fulfil his eyes commands. With every flick of his brush her shape strayed further from its natural form, becoming instead this creature of his perfection, this distorted figure of flawless beauty. Yet still, he was not satisfied.

In his trance-like state his fingers crawled further into this vicious fantasy, as they began to envision a rising curve that he had always craved to appear on her perfectly defined stomach. He traced it repeatedly. The arch rose to its climactic shape and the rest of her body moulded to her growing circumference while he watched in delight, feeling the pride of parenthood momentarily rush through his veins. And still his heart was not content.

He drew on as he hopelessly held onto this aching paternal need, permitting the addition of stretched skin and enlarged curves to occupy more of his artistic space. He relished in the fact that he had allowed for imperfections, for Mother Nature’s hourglass to have her way with his artwork- yet still his canvas was incomplete.

As his brush became more imposing on his mind, it then began delicately lining her skin- subtly denting every smile-induced crevice. He started gradually first then became more vigorous with intent as he saw their future together, thinking this is what he wanted. Her skin shrivelling, stretching and withering away. Her eyes sunken and hollowed. Her hair stringy like metal. The candescent shine of the moon washing her body clean of its youthful glow. His mind on the verge of artistic satisfaction.

Defenceless against the brutality of this inner demon, his fingers continued to whisk away. It was then, on that full-moon night, that her skin faded to a whiter shade of pale, her lips stained with that unmistakable blue. She had finally become his masterpiece.

His reality began to rip through his hypnotic spell as he stared upon his work of art with swollen eyes. Although consumed by shame and horror, he knew that this is how he saw her.

In a blurred outrage, he relentlessly attempted to erase, expunge and surgically remove his induced nips, tucks and pulls on her skin. The wrinkles, stretch marks, bulging stomachs and widened hips meant nothing to him, if she could return.

He needed her back. Her with the chestnut hair, the uneven lumps and unpolished skin. Her who was already gone.

His attempts to revive her were futile as the picture was complete, the canvas full. There was no more room for error or mistake- for change of mind.

Barely accepting this fate, he still wanted desperately to breathe life back into her, to warm her lips with his own. To touch her translucent skin one last time before she had to slip away into the stillness of this strange night.

After dropping his evil brush that dripped with a reality he had too long ignored, his hand still dared to answer one, potentially liberating question- could a heart still beat in the silence of her frame? Both terrified and mystified, he allowed the prints of his pulsing fingers to stain the purity of her sunken, ivory chest as he reacquainted himself with a territory that had become so unknown. But he felt nothing. Not only was there no rhythm of a steady beat, it didn’t exist at all. He forgot to draw one in.

Author's Note

Can you understand this story? Is it too vague to find meaning?

Reviews

[Dellas]

Hi I don't think its vague although it may depend on who reads it. I read loads of Murakami and Okri who both can appear to some as being vague, so it may depend on who reads it, personally I think a lack of concreteness in a story is great, although its not fashionable in certain literary circles. But who cares about fashion ...right?

[Hannah]

I completely agree, vague is what I was aiming for with this piece so that people could find their own interpretation- concrete story lines are a bit too marginalizing for me. Thanks for your help :)