Black

I entered inside and threw the keys on the mattress. It had been a terribly exhausting day. Out of habit, I furtively looked around the 10 x 10 room that has been my home for the past two years. Sometimes it feels like there’s someone else in the room. Well, I wish there was.

In the corner of the room is my most prized possession: the painting that I have been working on since I was born. When I had opened my eyes for the first time, nestled in my mother’s arms, she’d grabbed my index finger and made me put a minuscule black splotch on a canvas. At least, this is the tale that my mother used to concoct around my birth, customarily leaving out the part of who impregnated her.

I brushed aside these thoughts and peeled off the figurative mask that I only use at work. I went to the corner of the room and sat on the ground. I slowly caressed the sides of the canvas. It felt like an extended organ of my body, which I took care of every day by smearing it with black paint. But today there was something different. I couldn’t get the canvas to converse with me, like it did every day. It felt like the canvas wanted a separation. I could sense a longing for finality.

So I got up and mindlessly poured some water in a vessel to make tea. I put the gas stove on. I looked back at the canvas once. We stared at each other wistfully. I turned around and put my face down on the lit stove. I stayed in that position till my face burnt up and looked as black as the canvas.