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Description
“Where were you last night?” was scratched onto the wall. There is was carved boldly and written over and over in various shades, colors and depths into the wood. My eyes welled up at the site of it. Piled on the floor in obvious haste were bruised tubes of oil and broken paintbrushes, chalk dust littered on the floor next to cups of inky water. The stepladder in the corner has the first 3 parts of the message continued onto the top step. Terror infiltrates my rib cage forcing me to take a few steps backward and look around. Every inch of the space, top to bottom, is covered with the phrase. As soon as my eyes pass over all of this the hot tears begin to cascade down my ashen cheeks as I hear footsteps behind me and a gasp. “It’s true, isn’t it?” Sara asks louder that I’m comfortable with. I know I’m not alone now which makes me at odds with this schizophrenic nightmare. My black stilettos, midnight satin dress and dark makeup, give me the allusion of one of the inner daemons I helped him fight against. Mascara tears pool up next to my pouting blood red lips, hesitating and continuing along their journey to my chin. I put my petite hand to the wall and ease myself down gently onto my knees, resting my rear on the backs of my heels. I feebly attempt to rub off some of the words that are barely settled onto the surface.

  “It’s pointless, you know,” he whispers behind me.

  “No, it’s isn’t.”

  “Yea,” she pauses, “you know, I know, THEY know.”

  “Shhh… Just help.”

  “Don’t do this to yourself, stand up and face reality.”

I turn around to face guilt in it’s purest form mixed with the pain of jealousy. I ignore her by picking up a knife, the paint covered one made dull by fervent use, and I gracefully move it to it’s side and begin to rake it up and down rhythmically. A fine mist of too dried tempera and newly used chalk coats my chest and the tip of my Hollywood nose. She’s left me alone in my helplessness and gone outside to wait for me in the car. Her departure breaks open the dam and my soul rivers mix with the brilliant colors of the words of my damnation. The walls peel back like bark on a tree that withstood a raging fire poorly. I lean up to reach higher, straining just to get the blade deep enough so as to eliminate the grooves in wood repeating, “Where were you last night?” Sobs choke me and I only wish they would finish me off. The area that is savagely clean widens as my pace quickens. At last I stand and admire my work. I’m covered in the rejection of a mural torn apart and I walk over to the tubes of oil paint. I grab a brush with just enough bristles to do the job. Slowly I dip it into titanium white and apply strokes with great care, moving my arms gracefully. After twenty long and painful minutes my message is painted loud and clear. I turn the broken brush against my self while the glowing paint is still wet. Smiling as the white turns to red, then to pink the to… nothing.

Description
“Where were you last night?” was scratched onto the wall. There is was carved boldly and written over and over in various shades, colors and depths into the wood. My eyes welled up at the site of it. Piled on the floor in obvious haste were bruised tubes of oil and broken paintbrushes, chalk dust littered on the floor next to cups of inky water. The stepladder in the corner has the first 3 parts of the message continued onto the top step. Terror infiltrates my rib cage forcing me to take a few steps backward and look around. Every inch of the space, top to bottom, is covered with the phrase. As soon as my eyes pass over all of this the hot tears begin to cascade down my ashen cheeks as I hear footsteps behind me and a gasp. “It’s true, isn’t it?” Sara asks louder that I’m comfortable with. I know I’m not alone now which makes me at odds with this schizophrenic nightmare. My black stilettos, midnight satin dress and dark makeup, give me the allusion of one of the inner daemons I helped him fight against. Mascara tears pool up next to my pouting blood red lips, hesitating and continuing along their journey to my chin. I put my petite hand to the wall and ease myself down gently onto my knees, resting my rear on the backs of my heels. I feebly attempt to rub off some of the words that are barely settled onto the surface.

  “It’s pointless, you know,” he whispers behind me.

  “No, it’s isn’t.”

  “Yea,” she pauses, “you know, I know, THEY know.”

  “Shhh… Just help.”

  “Don’t do this to yourself, stand up and face reality.”

I turn around to face guilt in it’s purest form mixed with the pain of jealousy. I ignore her by picking up a knife, the paint covered one made dull by fervent use, and I gracefully move it to it’s side and begin to rake it up and down rhythmically. A fine mist of too dried tempera and newly used chalk coats my chest and the tip of my Hollywood nose. She’s left me alone in my helplessness and gone outside to wait for me in the car. Her departure breaks open the dam and my soul rivers mix with the brilliant colors of the words of my damnation. The walls peel back like bark on a tree that withstood a raging fire poorly. I lean up to reach higher, straining just to get the blade deep enough so as to eliminate the grooves in wood repeating, “Where were you last night?” Sobs choke me and I only wish they would finish me off. The area that is savagely clean widens as my pace quickens. At last I stand and admire my work. I’m covered in the rejection of a mural torn apart and I walk over to the tubes of oil paint. I grab a brush with just enough bristles to do the job. Slowly I dip it into titanium white and apply strokes with great care, moving my arms gracefully. After twenty long and painful minutes my message is painted loud and clear. I turn the broken brush against my self while the glowing paint is still wet. Smiling as the white turns to red, then to pink the to… nothing.