Painted Frustrations

A story I wrote about painting and emotions.

Red paint splatters across the stark white canvas, like the sudden rush of light as the sun comes up over the horizon. A girl stands in front of the garish sight with mass weapons of creation; a paint brush in one hand and abused tubes of paint in the other. She angrily throws the handful of paints down on a worn wooden table at her side and begins to furiously attack the canvas with her crimson soaked brush. Time loses meaning in her mind as she pours out her emotions on this vast but limited space. Hours seem to have passed, and the girl stands back from the easel with a satisfied sigh and rubs her arm across her forehead which, unbeknownst to her, leaves behind a red streak.

The longer she looks at the painting, her small body begins to fill with grief and she begins to sob. She deftly wraps her arms around herself as if she has done it many times, and sinks to the floor in her misery. Thoughts and memories tear through her mind; a man walking hand in hand down the street with a girl that she recognizes as herself, the same man pulling her close and she tastes the sweetness of peaches on his lips, a rainy day spent hidden from the world under a fort of blankets. The same question seems to accompany all of these memories: “Why did he leave?”

 

Author's Note

Any and all honest feedback is encouraged.