The only thing she loved with the same passion and intensity she loved Donovan with was painting. Being together for 3 years, he'd always known that painting was something she held dear to her heart. After all, they did meet each other in an art class. She loved it so much that she even made a living out of it, pouring every fibre of her being into the strokes she made. She loved him fiercely, but deep down, in the darkest recesses of her heart, she knew there was nothing she would love more than painting. It took up a huge chunk of her heart and soul that nothing and no one, not even him, could compare to the space painting took up in her heart. Despite the financial and personal struggles that came with her painting career, she wouldn't give up. She'd never give up on painting.
At first, he started coming home late. Their weekly dinners turned to monthly dinners, and the hours would tick by with him nowhere in sight. She'd be painting on the couch, ultimately falling asleep, her work half-done, and then be woken up at around midnight to the sound of the door shutting softly behind him, trying his best not to wake her up. When she'd ask him about it in the morning, he'd kiss her softly and apologize for the workload he was facing. He's in the running for a promotion, he'd say, while rubbing his thumb in circles on the back of her hand, promising to make up for it once he got promoted. You'd understand that putting in long hours is necessary, he'd say as he twirls a loose strand of hair that had fallen from her bun. She'd nod, believing him, and it would soon become routine for her to continue painting while waiting for him to arrive, using that extra time to create more, seeing how few of her pieces she's sold recently.
She tries to hold back the stinging tears threatening to fall and the lump in the back of her throat, the side of her face still reeling from coming into contact with his fist for the first time just seconds before. It's half a year since he's been coming home late, yet there is still no promotion, the only thing present being the lipstick stains on his collar and the scent of vanilla infused with his musky odour. He hits her once more, releasing all his pent up frustration at having to deal with her low income job, her constant busyness, and the barrage of questions about his whereabouts and who he's with. He screams at her, and she's huddled on the floor, curled in a ball, hoping that when she does, maybe, just maybe, she could disappear temporarily. Finally, finally, after what seems like hours but is only just a few minutes, he retreats to his room, and she retreats to her office, where she paints out the horror she's been through just a few minutes earlier.
She's painting like she's never painted before, and she channels all her emotions into that very work of art she's now creating. Funny how even in the aftermath of a huge fight, all she can think of is running back to her first love and creating something to forget what just happened. Her movements are steady, sure, and the colours are alive and bursting with life, all red tinged with just a bit of sadness. She paints her anger onto the canvas – anger at her being replaced, anger at what had just taken place earlier, anger at his violence, anger at her situation – she paints it all onto the canvas, every stroke her brush makes screaming of the powerful emotion threatening to burst through the dams.
When she wakes up the next day, she rushes to the bathroom to discover an ugly bruise snaking its way down her face. Her fingers trace its path, and she winces slightly when she presses down lightly upon it. She definitely can't get through the day looking the way she does. To avoid questions from the prospective buyer coming to visit her today, she covers it up, and it's so good, it's almost as if the incident never happened.
"I like this one." He gestures, and she sees him point at the painting she did less than 24 hours ago. He takes a step closer and just stares at it in awe. She holds her breath. This is the last painting he sees, and everything else he's already seen is too common, too plain, and too boring for his taste. "Is this for sale?" He asks, searching for a price tag, "because I don't see the price tag anywhere."
