The Eye of the Beholder [slow updates]

3. Something Borrowed

3. Something Borrowed

Thick swirls of black overlapped with faint tinges of brown while tiny flickers of gold were scattered around each corner. They looked like glittering stars on a new moon, overlooked from the top of a cliff. Rosaline dabbed the irregular dot and felt its hard texture against the pad of her finger. She flicked off the excess and wiped her hand in the worn out piece of cloth that she had tied about her waist.

Random stains had covered the handle of the brush by the time she picked it up. She tightened her grip around the light, wooden stem as she dipped it into the puddle of color she had prepared earlier. It wasn't fully dry yet so she decided to take advantage of whatever she could salvage of the unique shade. Taking a step back, she pulled out a thin slice of wood and rested its edge horizontally over the canvas to work as a barrier. She twirled it several times in an attempt to pick out a perfect slope before she proceeded to splatter paint all over the empty north-eastern spot.

A drop of salty water slid down her face as she worked. Her forehead creased into parallel lines and her eyes narrowed into no more than two crescent moons. She traced one line over another to accentuate the color and deepen its hue. The brush ruffled as it skidded over the smooth fabric and over again until it scrunched a faint zigzag, pouring down the last few ounces of its supply. She paused to dip it back in the palette, praying that the puddle wasn't finished yet. She still needed some more and that section wasn't even halfway done. A strand of her hair strayed out of the elastic band and her hand fumbled to tuck it back away from her face. She felt a light weight accumulate over the side of her jaw, but she ignored it. If she paused now, she might as well forget what she had in mind for that one painting. A tinge of pain shot up her arm. The muscles of her wrist ached whenever she lifted the brush higher, begging her to stop at last.

The fingers of her spare hand began to tap her thigh over the fabric of her jeans. Her head swayed to the beat of Elvis playing through the stereo in the background. The interior speaker system was one of the few things that hadn't been cut short in there.

She was expecting her decision letters from college later that week, or at least so she had hoped. She had already been done with her interview in December, which was three months earlier. She had been eager to know the results throughout the first couple of weeks, but as the days went by her interest slowly subsided, up to the point where she had almost forgotten the fact in all.

She wasn't even sure if she still wanted to be accepted in the first place. The thought of finally getting into college was a source of intrigue for her at first, but a while later her mind started to rethink things, to reorganize her priorities.

Her mother never took off the black ever since that day at the cemetery, when she had to stand on her own a few days after she was done with her SATs. She had to be there next to her mother, and watch strangers bury her own father's lifeless body six feet under the ground. It was only then when she had finally started to doubt her decision.

Food poisoning. That was what the doctors had said, but she knew better. That look she had exchanged with her brother upon hearing the news confirmed it all, and that scar on top of his head that glimmered in the neon light of a hospital hallway made it a living proof that it was no more than a big, fat lie. It was like someone found their pleasure in torturing every single one of her family. She couldn't just back away and hide in a different country. College wasn't a strong enough excuse for her to take that plane all the way to Montreal. It wasn't worth it. That was if she even got the acceptance letter at all.

Deep down in her heart, she knew exactly who was behind that "accident" of food poisoning her father had gone through. It was the same person who had forced her own brother to go through the same experience many years earlier. It was the night of his sixteen's birthday when he dropped head first to the floor and foam started to drip off his mouth. He had been thought to be dead at first, but the examination showed a weak pulse still going on, and with high voltage the doctors were able to resonate his heartbeat.