I don’t know how she got in here. I don’t know how she got the cuffs off. And I don’t know how long it’s been. The days stopped meaning anything a long time ago.
Eve looks at me, and doesn’t speak.
Lying on my cot, I don’t say anything to her either. I stare at her eyes. They’re purple. They’re magic and mystery and beauty. And they look like they’re going to cry.
She takes something out of her bag and places it on the floor. I don’t care to see what it is. I just stare into her eyes. I stare into her colors that make the white walls expand, and the box feels just a little bit bigger, even if for only a moment.
She steps away, walking slowly toward that corner. She casts me one final look, a look of pain and regret and sorrow. Her eyes are shining. And they’re pouring white tears.
Her voice trembling, I hear her speak one last time.
“Your name is Canvas. You’re a painter.”
She disappears from my life.
I look down at the floor.
Laying there, unmoved, eternal, and alive, is a palette and a brush.
I once thought white was the most beautiful thing in the world. Then I discovered color, and whiteness lost all meaning and importance. It became something ugly, something dead and emotionless. But now I realize that I was wrong twice.
Because whiteness is every color there is. Hidden. Waiting.
My strokes are light and wispy, hatching the surface of the white floor with precision and purpose. I’m careful, very careful to not step where the paint is still fresh. I’ve never done this before, but it feels like this is all I was ever meant to do.
The air smells clean and pure, and the hard floor softens.
My strokes are broad and wide, bathing the ceiling with deep, immense hues, and size that I can’t even begin to fathom. I strain to recall everything I heard in stories to match its splendor. My paint could never do it justice though. It will never be the perfection I envision.
12-Apr-2012 08:20:53
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