A thick layer is what the paint becomes. She could continues to struggle, push and fights but her efforts are useless and her energy used up.
The world surrounding her is so deafening that it becomes quiet. Not a peaceful sort of quiet, but a quiet filled with rage and upset. Never once does the flame of her fury dampen. With each second of this moment it is kindled not with timber nor with tending but rather; hope.
Hope.
That is the key thing to her in this moment. Hope. Hope to wipe her canvas clean and begin again.
Hope.
YOU ARE READING
I Am His Canvas
Short StoryThis a story I wrote for an English language exam. The prompt was "Write about witnessing a crime"; I am very proud with how it turned out. //TW for rape.
