I hate this world.
Those were the letters that formed in front of her, manifested by ink that was skillfully written onto the canvas that held the picture together. The room was tiny, filled with various pieces of artwork that were stacked unorderly, paint brushes were scattered around either on the floor or in stained containers. In front of her was the canvas in its easel. The easel, having endured the years of her life's work, was worn. Acrylics can be seen stuck on the legs and sides of the easel with splinters on the adjustable mast. Even with its appearance, you can still tell that it was a cherished item, used with care. Alice took a step forward, she felt herself raising her hand up to the letters, to outline it with her fingers, to smudge it. She doesn't know why, but she feels herself lingering closer and closer to the work of art she had made out of anger. The anger towards the world that she has found wicked and cruel, unworthy of life.
She took a step back and looked at her piece closely, among the dull plasters of different shades of gray and browns with other desaturated colors of orange and reds; the lines and strokes were harsh—some brutal—as if created by the torments of life. Looking closer you could see little details, scribbles that would represent a much deeper meaning.
Yet, to Alice, the meaning behind these details meant nothing.
The wind howls, and the branches screech on the window, each one getting louder and louder. It gets deafening, the winds grow harsh, the branches start to snap, breaking. Breaking. Then comes glass, with each shard slicing through the air. S
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Rain found its way into the studio, first in sprinkles, then it poured. And oh, it poured hard. The rain covered the broken pieces of glass, wrapped itself around those pieces, with the force pushing it closer together.
Alice simply watches. Despite the chaos, the breaking gave peace. As the rain pours in, it creeps closer towards the artworks she's left to dry along with some of her own personal belongings. She doesn't panic, her face devoid of any emotions. A sane person would panic—she decided that she wasn't sane. Instead, she looked at the walls that were once painted white, now gray as dust piles and the paint chips. These imperfections were covered with murals, little bursts of acrylic attempting to allay the reality of her life—each one holding its own tiny world with untold stories. Alice looked back at her current piece, the very one meant to vent her hatred towards the world. She looked at her palette, filled with desaturated colors that reflected her lethargic self.
She stepped away from her easel, her feet wet from the rain that flooded a section of her room, moved towards the corner where she kept her unused canvas. She paused, a singular flower rested where the rain was pouring from the window. Yet, despite the rain, it still kept its composure. As she inched closer, she felt the rain wash over her, showering her with a strange sense of serenity within her calamity. She hesitated, her heart pounding, she reached over to the corner of her desk that she never touched and grabbed a couple of vibrant colors. It felt light in her hands, and a strange sensation surged through her. She looked back at her canvas, the darkness emitted from her vent filled the room. She saw her own work stare back at her, the paint glaring. Yet it seemed like it was towards not the creator, but the world itself.
Alice picked up her palette, she squeezed the first tube, its color bright, unreal—imposters in the monochrome room. She looked at it, Alice stepped forward, took her vent off of the easel, and replaced it with the one filled with uncertainty.
