The Paintbrush

My first stroke

I will never forget this moment. The ink was black and the tip glided among the rough canvas. It only lasted seconds but this moment has been on my mind for hours. Why was I so fascinated by this one action? I have no idea. The only good thing was that I was allowed to take it home with me; she said to 'cherish' this moment.
No, I haven't opened the box yet, she didn't let me. No matter how much I pleaded, she denied every time. I even tried crying for sympathy but she knew I was making her pity me.
"How was school today?" She asked me today. She only wanted to know what I was feeling since I had to resist forcing the box open. The brunette masterpiece rested in my hands all day and now, maybe today, she will give me the key.
"It was the same as usual," I answered, becoming more and more impatient everyday. I needed to know and this lack of knowledge was killing me. She looked into my eyes again, noticing my constant irritation of the seat and annoyance.
"You want the key, don't you?" She questioned.
"Well, no shit Sherlock!" I screamed. This was the first time I was angry. I was never known to be angry. I didn't like the feeling of aggression but right now, it felt so right and necessary. My arms and feet were firm and she noticed it too. This was level 2 of the anger stage, being afraid of being violent. And I sure was afraid.
"Okay, but this is supposed to be a calm and comfortable session for you. If you have a complaint, don't hesitate to complain about me." Was her response. Oh she is good at this. Because she knows that I know she's right. I can't complain about her because I admire this feeling of wanting. To envelope something new and discover hidden truths. She knew I liked this feeling and getting into my head to admit it was the best possible way to show me that she knew too. She was so right that I hated it. I truly hate it.
"So...?" She said after I had calmed down. Her hair was swaying like usual and her clothes seemed perfectly aligned whereas me, don't even ask me.
"I'm sorry, I need to go to the toilet," I exclaimed, getting up again and making my way to the door with my handbag.
"I want you to leave your bag here..." She softly spoke, so feminine-like yet with such authority. It almost felt as if she was dangerous, "...and empty your pockets."
She knew all along. I stepped back slowly knowing that revealing this secret will hit me more than it will hit her. I knew this was the last straw and there was no going back. I reached my hand into my pocket and pulled out the nightmare stored inside. Looking away, I placed everything on the table, knowing I should be prepared for the worst reaction.
"Turn around," she quietly said to me. I obeyed the next second and she was holding the item I feared the most. "Are you pregnant?"
"No," and without even saying another word, my eyes released the waterfall they were holding behind. In seconds my cheeks were soaked and so was my shirt. I didn't want to tell her anything but now she knew this. If she knows this, she'll know all my other secrets, they are all linked.
"Honey, why do you have this?" She declared, yet with a gentle tone. I sat down with a thick coat of fear around me. I felt so exposed like someone took off my clothes again. The nightmare replayed on and on again in my head and it really hurt. I already knew my eyes had turned red and there was no turning back so it was better done with.
"I was coming home from college,"
"You don't have to tell me the things you don't want me to know," she interrupted, leaning in closer to me like there was someone else in the room. Her eyes were attentive but not sympathetic. It was as if she already knew but didn't like seeing me hurting after every word.
"Ok, I want you to close your eyes," she objected and I obeyed. My eyes were soaked by the water and I couldn't stand staying like this. She placed something long and thin in my hand and I responded by grabbing it. It was fragile but sturdy enough to be used for a long period of time. With a feathered material at the end, I concluded it was a simple paintbrush with a chipped area which has clearly been forcefully torn off.
"I want you to now open your eyes and paint a single stroke about your feelings." Her voice calmly said. I did what she said since I was so vulnerable now, I felt weak. My hand leaned against the canvas as I felt the brush's tip press against the textured canvas. Slowly I began moving the tool to the right and slightly to the left to create a rigid pattern. I felt as if there was a dance to it, something that was making my body move whilst creating a masterpiece. It was unusual yet so fascinating as I didn't want this pleasure to stop. The brush stroke was a stain in my brain like I had never discovered a feeling like this and I was never going to forget. The brush's friction began increasing due to the lack of paint and I didn't want it to end. Why hadn't I done this before? I wish this never stopped...

(Dedicated to a friend..)