Inked

Lacy's coarse black curls bounced and flew behind her. Wind seemed to graze her freckled cheeks, but the air in the white walled room was stilled. The ground lay with a gray almost depressive sense, but she just smiled. Though the room seemed familiar, she could not recall that she had been here before. Her father had awoken her very early that morning and simply said he had a surprise for her. Typically, surprises scared Lacy and brought her back to days of her mother's death, or bullies waiting behind the school's back door. However, today was not a regular day. Today was her birthday, and she did not expect a bad surprise to follow. Giddily, Lacy had jumped out of bed that morning and was greeted by the sight of her father's bourgeois face and silver hair. Lacy stared intently at her father's physiognomy change as he hastily pulled out his acacia wand. With a kind grin, Lacy's father looked lovingly at his young daughter and Lacy was suddenly transported to a mystical white room.

In the corner lay a rusted paint can. Simply staring at the can in the corner made lacy grin just enough that two dimples sprouted upon her freckled face. She had been here before, but as Lacy tried to grasp memories of her prior visit they slipped away. The white room was eerily chilly, but Lacy, entranced by the black emulsion, didn't notice the frigid environment. Slowly, Lacy ambled her way over to the paint bucket in the corner of the diminutive white room. Leaning over the paint bucket, Lacy's swirling eyes met in the reflection of the dark and murky substance. Sitting across the rusted brim lay a wooden paint brush. Lacy held her gaze upon the paint bucket for what seemed like hours. Interrupting the silence and stillness of the stale and barren room, a whisper seemed to come from the paint bucket. Lacy couldn't seem to make out the nuance, but she gained a sudden urge to pick up the paint brush. As her cold fingers latched onto the splinter-ridden handle of the brush, a wave of emotions flew through Lacy. Taken aback, she gazed at the paint brush.

None of this made sense. Lacy began to question why she was her, and the purpose of her venture. This was her birthday surprise from her father, so it must be good. Lacy looked down at the brush again. It was rough and seemed to have been used many times. The paint can below was old as well, rusted, and ridden with specks of black paint. However, though the paint can definitely was old and had been there for a long time, it was still full of paint. Lacy confused, pondered the room and all of its speculations. "Might as well paint?" she told herself. Kneeling down, she dipped the brush's crusty bristles into the Stygian paint can.

A normal person would ponder before starting to douse a bunch of white walls with coarse black paint, but Lacy had no trouble starting right away. She didn't know what she was doing, but her body moved the brush as if it were second nature. Swiftly Lacy drew a path. The lines of both sides of the path were thin and angled, making them seem almost three dimensional. As Lacy continued to draw, her body moved along with the swaying of her brush, but also into the images she was creating. Walking across a cobblestone path, she saw nothing in the distance except a colorless void. Swiftly moving her brush on her left she drew lines up and down; grass grew and embellished Lacy's imaginative landscape. For what seemed like years, Lacy created her own world out of her inky paint. Birds flew, wind blew, dogs barked, and Lacy embarked on many an adventure.

Sitting on an elaborately built bench made out of stenciled stones, Lacy admired her creation. Having ensconced herself, she felt a sense of contentedness and completion. The breeze had been blowing lightly for quite some time now, but it had been building up rather quickly. All of a sudden, the wind blew expeditiously, making Lacy's black curls ricochet off of her thin shoulders. Freckled face and starry eyes; Lacy's fingers let go of the soaked paint brush, and she watched as it fell to the ground. Black paint, black paint, black paint. Everything was black and Lacy was surrounded, drowning in darkness, and gasping for air. She was lost in her mind. Lacy had remembered that today was a surprise, and it was supposed to be a good one. Lacy sighed at the loss of her world, but at recalling that it had originally just been a white, room she snapped out of her wonderland.

Lacy stared at her father's face. "Thanks for the surprise, Dad."

"How was it?" he asked.

"It was wondrous." Lacy replied while looking at her father's round glasses and deep green eyes. His scruffy chin and dimpled smile were a comfort, for she felt as if she'd been gone for a while.

"What was it?" her father questioned with a sly grin.

"I don't remember." Lacy replied in a mode of contented confusion. "I guess I'll find out next year?"

"Maybe," Lacy's father chuckled and then twisted his finger around one of her raven ringlets. "Happy birthday, Lacy."