The Artist
Scarlet decorated porcelain furnishings, colors of the varying sorts following behind in shorthand, silken tendons moving about the canvas wildly, a maniac look upon the creator’s features.
Shapes of all sizes were soon intergraded into the portrait, his attention darting back and forth
between the subject and his work, capturing each detail they dared allow his hand to wander and
his brush to stroke.
Bit by bit, the outline became dominant, a twitch lining his brow as he glanced over, the corners
of his lips slowly curving heavenwards before returning to their original dismay, a look of tension lacing itself about his entire atmosphere; hands still eagerly kept to the work’s frame, fear
now striking his core. Within an instant, with the remainder of his strokes coming to an end,
fingertips effortlessly across the surface, drip by drip, the canvas growing darker from lack of
control nor patience.
Water splashed across the artist’s feet as he stood, dragging an elongated nail across the perforated edge, slicing the paper away from its containment, settling the work in his hands. Again,
his eyes returned to the subject, perking a brow. Every little mistake he made became obvious,
and he knew it, he’d repeated the same image a dozen times in the past several days. Not a wink
of slumber had coated the male’s eyes, his whole-hearted attention devoted to that sole human,
the sole heir to his affection.
His fiancée.
Without a word, chocolate locks framed his face, dusting off his post, silently cleaning his supplies before returning them to their proper cabinets and cupboards, not a sound penetrating the
silence he’d once dreamt of - the silence he’d come to know during his time alone. In a way,
though, he found the silence soothing, appealing as if he had found a forgotten friend or someone that he had lost in a past life. There was a joy inside him that he, himself, could not produce
words for. However, in many cases, the very silence that he found comfort in was also the Hell
he had only just removed himself from.
Like slender arms embracing a lover, anxiety had become a regular abuse to his delicate form,
brows trained to wrinkle at the smallest tap at the window, though relaxing just as quickly once
the urge had vanished just as they all did. The scars of what was once and what remained lined
broken wrists, sleeves raised to reveal dozens upon dozens of scarlet indentations. Battered
hands kneading into a dirtied cloth, somber features studied the finished painting with a smile, a
single digit extending to carefully trace along the overworked surface. Hazel irises narrowed for
a moment, nails tracing through wet paint with a twisted grin before sinking to the floor, hesitation in his eyes as he attempted to reach for a brush that would never join his hand. A single
stroke out of place caused his body to arch, searching frantically for any sort of material to fix
the mistake, despite his former pleasure with the final product. Minutes passed, the artist remaining in his position as he searched for a brush, no longer aware that he himself had disposed
and returned his materials to their proper places.
All in an instant, however, he grew docile, head hanging low as a smile formed on his lips.
The dust settled once more around him, voices he had grown to adore in his nightly endeavors
quickly filled his conscious and rang throughout the once peaceful space, hands attempting to