Wait. But what is that? One thing breaks the silence, the deafening silence. The final cracks of the canvas, so worn down by the painter's furious stroke that she begins to sob. Great, heaving wails emerge from her. Her tousled hair violently whips about. That thing that pierced the bubble of silence was done with anger. Fury.
She is me and me is I. I was the cancas painted by the shameful paintbrush. I was the one covered in a thick tainting layer of red. Red is the colour haunting my body.
The spirits of that moment will forever linger in my mind constantly whispering; "You let him do it" the cycle of these words, unstoppable, the guilt stuck to me, a taint, and who was blamed?
Me.
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.
