The Painting
248
I bury my head in a little square-shaped wood resting on a support, wooden one. I let myself bathe in acrylic colours after I discover that the door has been bolted. He has done it again.
The sun comes in and bathes me with warmth while I sit fidgeting on a wooden stool hoping that someone would come to save me. But they didn't. I smell lavender strongly in the air by the windows. It was spring and I was kept company by random flowers.
There was nothing to see around me except that I have been put with things that have been painted. With paintings that had tags on them. The one I was with reads 248. "Was that the number of paintings painted or was that the number of persons who have been let here into this small cubicle and made to throw their artistic knowledge unto a piece of wood?"
I made way for the brushes again whilst tears trickle down my face. My eyes are red and I have just finished crying. If you listen closely, the sound of my sobs remains, soft.
I was walking down the street among those market vendors for I was hungry and needed to fix myself something to eat. It was my routine on Friday evenings after long never-ending hours of work. Tell me a job where they have a decent boss around this city and I'll come flying there. I was so sick of it but I had to fend for myself.
I buried my head in the potatoes I was buying. I was planning to search online for a recipe. The style of food I have been feeding on has been routine. I needed a change, a spark. My life was dull. And I guess they meant it when they said to be careful what you wished for. See where I ended, in criminals' hands.
I stay in here cooped up for a long time till the door opens. The sudden bang and noise the lock makes break my focus. I stop crying. I look ahead at his face, the one who dragged me here. He looks aggressive. A tall man whose head met the door panel. He comes to where I sit and questions me. Asking if I was done with the painting. I nod. I was almost through anyways. “Why bother?” He comes behind me and sees what I have painted.
I tell a story with colours on display. I blend the colours and get the view of a mountain which looks surreal and the base which carries snow. I make people lay on the cold snow and they ooze. It tells a story of gangs taking people and letting them dance in the snow whilst they bled. It tells the story of monsters who enjoy making others suffer. There were those kinds that need rehabilitation but nay, they suggest I was the one instead.
I show him the view of the cold snow being bathed in blood. And the sun shone coldly against horrific characters. And I was the witness from afar behind a tree. And he looks at me and I look at him. And he says...to kneel.
