Scarred For Life

Chapter 56

*
Afrah almost moved into the new painting room.

Almost.

If it weren't for the fact that it was too far away from Adnan's room, she would have done so. But for now, her choice of where to sleep remained unchanged.

Most days however, she would sit in the room, occasionally staring at the backyard for hours on end. It soon became her dining room/study/sanctuary. She had brought a few books into the room, and she read them usually with a cup of coffee beside her and a bowl of noodles. The view was great, and Adnan had started a small garden beside the wall, where he kept several potted plants whose names Afrah didn't know. He watered them everyday before leaving for work, and he instructed Aliyu - the new security guard they'd hired - to water them in the afternoons.

Mostly though, Afrah stared at the blank canvases and the paint brushes. The first day after Adnan showed her the room, she had spent hours running her fingers over the brushes and smiling like a little girl. She picked them up and twirled them in her hands, remembering the feeling of holding one. It had been years since she painted anything. Her hobby had died a slow and painful death, but with Adnan's helping, it was beginning the agonizingly slow process of resurrection.

She had thought it would be easy. When Adnan left for work, she had slipped into the room immediately. After touching every single brush in the room, she stood before the canvas, eyes glinting with a long-forgotten passion, and reached out to touch it as well. It was rough to the touch, just as she remembered.

It wouldn't hurt to try something new. After all, she had this wonderful view beside her, and everything was right at her disposal. Her art teacher used to tell her that the mind of an artist is infinitely full of inspiration. The only thing which matters is how to tap into that inspiration and create something beautiful.

She thought about painting the tree outside for a start, or the sky in all its vast beauty; something to get her back into the rhythm of it all.

She squirted some blue paint onto the palette, dipped the brush and swirled it slowly before bringing it to the canvas.

Nothing.

Her mind went completely blank.

Afrah took a step back, staring at the canvas with her lips pursed. She tried again, but the moment the brush came up, something inside her died.

A hundred times she tried, and yet a hundred times she failed to come up with anything.

It used to be so easy. All she had to do was lift the brush, and her mind would instantly begin to conjure up an idea; an image which would guide her hands as they glided across the plain canvas. The best artists were those who put a brush in their hands and allowed their minds to run freely, giving their imagination the reins and watching as something beautiful came to life. They dwelled within that grey area between trying and not trying. The best works always came from there.

But when Afrah handed the reins over to her imagination, nothing but an empty image appeared in her mind's eye.

She spent hours there, trying to spark her imagination to create something. Anything. But it eluded her, like wisps of smoke vanishing with the wind.

And so it became a ritual. Everyday, after Adnan left for work and she was done with the chores around the house, she would return to the room with a burning desire in her heart to finally do something. Five days later however, the only thing she had managed to paint was a tiny blue dot in the middle of the canvas.

"Such exquisite detail," Adnan muttered the day he returned to find her glaring at the canvas. "I must say, this dot is the best I've seen in a long time. You seem to have captured the intense simplicity so effortlessly. This masterpiece belongs in a museum; the Louvre perhaps. or maybe even Prado."