Black, gray, and white.
That’s what the world seemed to be, in this little attic room. The windows were open, but provided no light. This was due to the board planks nailed over them, slapped down at all angles, the long nails that held them together sticking out sideways from the ends of the boards.
The only aspect of the room that looked spacious, the walls, was painted a gray that seemed too bright to be an actual color. This color brought a lengthy look to the place, making it look as if the walls were miles and miles apart. The ceiling matched, but the floor was conducted of dark boards; there was a chunk missing, showing the plaster of the ceiling below, where planks had been ripped up to cover the windows.
Against one wall, a black-skinned piano that was covered in dust provided the only furniture. The key-lid was flipped open, revealing a line of black and white keys. The white keys were covered in dust, splotches of gray melting into the cracks that led to the next key.
And then, in the very center of the room, an artists easel sat. The wood of its frame was pale, a yellowish color with healthy circles of darker yellow grains. There was a single sheet of paper sat on it. On the paper, bright red marks were splattered everywhere. A small, pale hand rest on the wooden supply platter under the paper, in a little pile of red.
Below that, a small child lied, arm outstretches to her mothers old easel. A crystalline sparkle hung on her cheek for a second, and then rolled down into her slightly parted mouth. There was more red on her cheeks, and even more strung through her hair, as if someone had brushed it through. She shivered violently and sighed, and her hand fell into her lap.
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