A little story

(Not mine) I can see him there.

Quiet.

Peaceful.

Unsuspecting.

Sleeping.

Perfect.

I slowly climb a little more, my feet deft and my hands gripping tightly on the window ledge. It isn’t a particularly pretty night; the rain is coming down in buckets, drenching me in his cold content, as if he thinks what I plan is disgraceful, and he calls up storm to put me off. As if a little bad weather will stop me from doing what I need to do. I decide to stop putting the deed off, and decide to finally try and get inside the cozy little room. I dig my nails into the wooden frame of the window, slowly lifting, the rain still growling at me. He thinks too inside the box. He doesn’t anything I do. As if my art isn’t any good. My methods are innovative, unique, and of course, excellent in my execution of my piece. I see no possible way it could go wrong, but still he growls, swiping through the air with his bright, blinding whip, trying to intimidate me, put me off of my wonderful idea. No. I need to stay focused; my piece needs to be finished on time. The window is up now. I look back inside the room, the quiet little breathing from the lump in the bed makes his sweet sounds, the quiet little toneless noise that no music could mimic. Breathing.

I start to paint my picture. I walk in, no creaks from the floor, no disturbances, nothing to ruin this perfect painting. With the exception of the rain, everything seemed to be in my favour. But, the rain, the banshee that he is, wouldn’t want me to finish it, he oozes pure hatred for my work, I can tell. He just cares for himself, not of what is good or perfect.

And he would do worse.

Stop. No time for this. No time for thinking about nonsense, the canvas needs a painting, and it shall be painted upon. I stepped a little further, ever so close to him now, a few more steps and I could finally make him into a beauteous art piece. It was so close, so nearly finished. But he doesn’t want this. He screams with the top of his lungs, his voice rumbles the very foundations as he screeches in hatred, the lump now rising, it sees me, it knows I want its blood, but I cant stop. I pounce, my nails buried in his face, his eyes now red with blood as his siren like screams pierce the air.

I scream back at him.

“This isn’t right. This isn’t right. Why would you do this, why couldn’t you accept, why couldn’t you love, why couldn’t you let me create, why couldn’t you? I did what I had to because I love my work. I loved you once, but you stopped me, you stopped me, your own daughter from her work, your own daughter from her life!”

He still screams, my hands in his eyes. He thrashes, hoping that I’ll let go, but I cling on, blood seeping down his face now, his mouth now being flooded with the red, pure, hatred. He slashes blindly at my face, clawing at anything he can. He gets a swipe across my left cheek. I scream at him, I push my fingers in his eyes even harder.

“You couldn’t leave me alone could you? You had to ruin everything, didn’t you? Destroy everything I had worked for? I thought you loved me!”

He coughs out another scream, blood splatters onto me, everything going wrong.

“It was supposed to be the greatest art piece, not… this, not this.”

He stops breathing. The blood has gotten into his lungs at this point. He dies, just like that, everything ruined. I breathe heavily, tired out from creating this travesty of a work of art. His face is ruined. The rain has stopped. He’s gone, and left me with nothing but a scratch. I turn away, and head towards the window, the painting ruined, the beauty lost, but not before looking at the mirror. Not much to look at, just a few glassy eyes, and a few scars.

No time. No time for anything anymore.

Must rest. Must get away from this.

Must get away from father.

/The Artist/

Submitted August 02, 2018 at 08:41PM by -pansherksual- https://ift.tt/2O2W3rQ