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Opera was the only type of music that Élodie Baudelaire listened to. It didn't make her feel anxious or annoyed, it had the opposite effect. It soothed her, it made her more focused on what she was doing.
It controlled her movements too; when the music was calm, she was calm. When it was angry, she was angry.
That must be why she was coating her old paintbrush in a mixture of blue, gently gliding it on the soft, egg-shell white canvas.
Élodie's hair was stuffed into a messy bun which was held by a hand-crocheted hair net. Her baby hairs and sparse bangs popped out around her hairline, giving her an exhausted look. Her face was bare, only a bit of smudged kohl under her eyes and the silky remanence of blush stuck to her full cheeks. She looked young, she looked relieved.
The blonde sat on the edge of her stool, one leg proper on the peg and the other laid flaccid against the wooden leg of her seat. She held a thin artist's tablet in the shape of a rectangle. Her manicured thumb peaked out from its hole and allowed the tablet to sit comfortably in her hand.
Forest green eyes followed her delicate hand with curiosity, watching as it moved with the sound of the music.
The opera picked up speed and emotion, causing Élodie to dip into the red, harshly swirling it into the blue to create a violent violet.
The artist's facial features never deterred as the emotions behind her visage brewed and boiled. She felt a familiar feeling rush through her veins, buzzing her limbs and forcing her to paint faster and with more vigor.
As the woman's voice grew higher and more frustrated, so did Élodie. Her brush slammed onto the canvas, leaving behind hairs that have broken off from the handle. Her easel rocked back and forth with each angry thrust.
The slightest twitch of Élodie's eye seemed to be the last stepping-off point as she grew angrier and angrier. She kicked her stool away and stood up suddenly. As she looked at her painting, she felt a violent bolt of electricity course through her.
She threw her brush across the room and slammed her artist's tablet onto the ground, letting the paint splatter everywhere. It needed something, the painting was crying out for something else.
In a split second, Élodie marched over to her bedside table and pulled the drawer out towards her, looking at the handgun that slid in the wooden space. Without hesitation, Élodie grabbed the gun, cocked it swiftly and stood tall in front of her painting, pointing the weapon directly at it.
The end of the opera song played, the woman's voice hit her last high note and Élodie's ears rang with excitement. She didn't waste a second longer as she pulled the trigger, watching the canvas split open with satisfaction.
Once the ringing in her ears died down, the blonde grabbed her masterpiece and examined it closely, touching the wet paint with curiosity. She squished the colored substance between her fingers and chuckled a bit as it oozed down her palm like purple blood.
Like yesterday's paper, Élodie threw her piece across the room as if it were a disc.
Her record player skipped and the opera song played again as she picked up a new canvas and placed it nicely on her easel. Her artist's tablet had been picked back up from the floor, her paintbrush had been retrieved. As the music sang through her body, Élodie felt her autonomy be claimed by the melody.
She took a deep breath and dipped her brush back into the blue paint.
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