Renee

The scent of turpentine and linseed oil filled the room.

The aroma enveloped her senses; fuelling her mind like a drug. The shapes and ideas in her head started to materialize on the canvas surface; the pigments on the brush tracing careful curves, shades and lines. Her heart had not known a better ecstasy. Time slowed down. It was just her, the wooden layout of the canvas in front of her, the sun rays falling through the battered roof of the warehouse, and the scattered line of variously pigmented crude oil colours around her. Her imagination transcended into a painting and it felt nothing short of magic. Hours passed away as the gentle strokes of paintbrushes bloomed over the blank canvas.

Renee sighed as the buzzing of her watch roused her from her reverie. It was time to leave. She pulled back her hair into a standardised bun, secured into place with a black hairpin. The oil bottles were tightly closed, the colours and other apparatus shoved into metal boxes, and heavy cloth sheets were draped over her work. The vibrant scene was swiftly transformed into a bleak one, any evidence that it had been brimming with creativity not minutes ago was brushed away. Renee took a moment to mourn the demise of her little workshop, then slung her work bag over her shoulders again and set out into the evening cold.

The world she lived in was a larger, amplified version of the state she had left the warehouse in. She walked down a lane lined with grey cottages with caved in roofs. Their inhabitants were willowy labourers with hungry eyes that followed her as she passed by. This was a world beaten down, oppressed; essentially dead. The symbols for the cause of death lay prominently scattered throughout the whole city. Presently, Renee passed a stone statue depicting a woman of impressive stature; revered badges lining the shoulders of her uniform, words of power scrawled on the pedestal underneath her feat, her stone eyes remorseless.

Renee pulled her gray coat closer to her chest as a police officer scanned her at the entrance of her residential colony. She kept her eyes down, careful not to meet his. It was forbidden. She hurried along the blocks to her own house.

“Renee,” her mother said breathily as Renee entered, “why are you late?” She hung up her frayed jacket and sighed heavily as she embraced her mother in the kitchen. “I was held up. Then I took a walk. Sorry to keep you waiting.” Seemingly satisfied with her response, her mother resumed cooking the modest dinner for their small family of two. Their house was sparsely furnished with the standard grey furniture, practical and non-individualistic, save for the few faded photographs lining the mantelpiece. At precisely 9 p.m., the alarm for the curfew rang through the empty streets: a warning that condemned anyone who dared to disobey. Police troops marched outside. Renee and her mother ate their dinner in silence, punctuated only by short exchanges about the day and soft smiles.

That night, Renee lay awake in her bed. In her languid state, she imagined colourful dots pinpricking the bare ceiling, forming constellations of stars and configurations of mystical creatures that visited her in her dreams. These creatures were dauntless, free to pursue their desires, fantasies, hopes. They wandered through colourful meadows and flew in azure skies. Her world, however, was grey, colourless and hopeless. She was prohibited from creating, restricted to a life of labouring away in the same fashion until the day her body turned to sand again. That wasn’t enough to keep her soul quenched, and one day she had plucked up some courage, bought pigments from the black market, and proceeded to set up a secret studio in an abandoned warehouse. It was her sanctuary. She itched to return to it, despite the risks. For now, though, she was content with painting with her eyes.

The next week, sneaking away to the warehouse after her job, Renee pulled out her gear and painted with a new found fervour.

Her strokes were erratic, swift, and passionate. Her hair hung loose, dark curls framing her shoulders; her jacket tossed in a corner. Streaks of paint lined her face. The peace was replaced with something darker, more feverish. Time slipped through her fingers like quicksand, and soon her watch was buzzing again. Renee chose to ignore it, and kicked the watch under some debris. Her teeth clenched, heart thundering in her chest, she splattered paint onto the canvas until her body forced her to drop with exhaustion. The creatures, the stars, the demons, everything came alive before her.

It was 9 p.m. Renee’s mother sat sobbing on the kitchen floor. Her daughter was too late today.