The Painter

Sally sighed as she stared at the canvas in front of her. The pale off-white color taunted her in ways she didn’t understand. Part of her didn’t want to do this, and as any good artist knows, the best art cannot be forced. This was a different kind of art though, one that had taunted her mind for a while now. Taking a deep breath in, she raised her finger and outlined the area her art would soon take place. Sally gulped down the saliva building in her mouth along with her guilt and pride. She then raised her utensil and made the first line. Red. Sally squinted her eyes at the line already unsatisfied. As any artist would know, sometimes things just feel ‘right’ when you do it and unfortunately this didn’t. “Horizontal,” she thought to herself, “it’s already wrong.” She nodded her head and turned the object 90 degrees and made one small stroke vertically. Sally licked her lips and squinted her eyes staring intently at the second line that intersected the first. “No,” she sighed, shaking her head. The lines were already there, no way to start over. She moved the utensil over just a centimeter and angled it ever so slightly before pressing down and making the third and final line. Sally closed her eyes as she drew it letting out a satisfying ahhh. It finally felt right. She licked her lips and examined her work. “Pretty,” she mumbled , tracing the air over her work with her bare fingers scared that touching it would ruin the art. “So pretty,” she repeated. Her voice was solemn and quiet.

After being fully satisfied with the work she had done, Sally pulled up her pants covering her thigh. No one would see the cuts. They were invisible to everyone, her own little secret. Sally kept her art a secret because no one understood why it was so beautiful. No one understood the pains of an artist.