Bittersweet The Beautiful

Bittersweet| The| Beautiful

My brush strokes move in sync with the canvas to make gentle petals with the bright iridescent orange paint. I work speedily and with ease moving my brush with the melody of a song that is treed inside my head; her song. Fulminant inspiration does not seem to come easy for me very often, however, when it does, I must paint, and I don’t stop until my work is done.

I pick up the gleaming golden yellow from my palette. I start to make long conscientious strokes as if I were God creating her long blond hair. I pick up green, starting to add shading in between my marks, just as God would have made her frigid, shattering, yet courageous, eyes. I try and shake off the fact that she, my love and traitor, is gone, always will be, and for the bittersweet better, but fail miserably and start to make fiercer, frustrating ridges into my canvas as a result.

I proceed to violet and black, trying to keep tranquil and collected, still seeming to make bruising actions towards my piece, without my usual calm control. I zone out quickly to her for a moment, forgetting about how my hands that seem to tousle paints all over my new creation. I think to my heart breaking, her madness, her beautiful body of evil who believed it was necessary to shatter a painter boy’s young heart and soul into non proportional, and now irrelevant, halves. I become much more furious and coarse with my work once again, still somehow being able to create a beauteous painting.

I pick up three different colors at once, slamming them into the canvas without much forethought, knocking on its frame with force, almost completing my beloved masterpiece, her. I splatter my paints left and right making beautiful textures in its white china doll skin, becoming overwhelmed and rough.

A single tear escapes from my right eye.

I think back to her for the millionth time under the pressure of gravity. Her, the pure rational motive for me to feel morose. Another tear escapes from my eye.

And another.

And another from my left.

With one final last brain sick and forced brush stroke, I finish. I take three steps back from my wooden stand that my sightly desire lay upon, silence raining down upon me, my eyes rimmed with suffer.

I brush my thick black hair off my sweaty face, managing to smear paints on my forehead, stupidly and unaware, like she seemed to smear taunting laughter in my face that I replay over and over in my head.

I search my heart for something to do next, being squandered, wordless, and tender from all my emotions flowing out of my body like a river. My head spins with more and more frustration, and being unaware and vulnerable, my soul reaches its breaking point. I throw my brushes with horrendous force, slamming them into the wall, splashing paint all over my studio, and making the pale, plain walls cry colors.

I sink down slowly to the glacial marble floor burring my throbbing head in my paint covered hands, crying hysterically, as I do everyday, but never seem to get used to.

I look up with hesitation at my brilliant masterpiece.

A beautiful, yet dull and lifeless, flower lay upon it with flaming flowing bright orange petals, appearing to be as soft as silk itself. Such a gorgeous creation, but much too difficult to handle and remain in my presence.

I reach into my warm pocket debating in my mind as I fish out a few items and lay them out beside me on the cool, dead ground. Doing so slowly, I pause.

Then, without warning, I take out an acute object making a blistering incision inside the flower’s ovaries. Feeling overconfident, I take my knife and make seven more large slices across my canvas with defeating madness.

I step back one last time. I entomb my head in my hands like she would’ve laughed at. I shook, screaming, until she was cleansed from my flimsy painter’s body. Then, I gather up my brushes, clean up, and wash myself sedately. Then I farewell once again until tomorrow.  

Author's Note

I'm only 16, this will not be perfect. But feel free to review :)