Painting

• Michelle Hoang, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2018

It was in the dead of the night. Silence pierced the cold night air and the stars danced in the dark sky. All was calm and quiet, except for a young girl, whose spirits and thoughts were racing with anxiety.

She tread quietly from her small bedroom, past her parent’s room, into the hallway and into the kitchen. She would flinch at the sound of wood creaking. It was as if the wood was scolding her to turn back and go to sleep again. Not to go to the kitchen again. Not to go painting again.

It was dark in the kitchen, the only source of light came from the moon, its light shone brightly at the girl’s skin. Her eyes travelled towards the kitchen drawer and she outstretched her hand. She grasped the drawer’s handle, opening it slowly. Once a crevice was seen, she plunged her hand in the drawer, pulling out a paintbrush.

By now, her body was impatient. It was calling her to paint right there and now. It was like a drug. The more she did it, the more her body wanted to do it. She would never be satisfied. She tried to move her legs towards the bathroom, but her legs wouldn’t move. They were stuck onto the white, shiny kitchen tiles as if they were stuck onto them with glue. The girl sighed, knowing that her body would never listen to her mind.

She positioned her canvas and raised her brush. Slowly, she began to stroke the canvas, leaving behind a thin trail of red paint. The girl positioned the paintbrush from the top of the canvas and then began to drag it down until it reached the middle of the canvas. She released it and moved towards another part of the canvas. Just like what she did before, she began to paint again. Her dull eyes watched as the paintbrush let dark red droplets fall slowly and crash onto the ground. Her emotionless face stole a glance at the paint at the canvas, wondering if it was enough painting for tonight.

A yawn escaped her lips as she rubbed her head. She concluded that it was time for her to sleep anyways. She stared at her paintbrush which was coated in blood red paint except for the top half, which glinted in the moonlight that brushed across her skin. She blinked slowly before placing the brush in the sink and sneaked back into her room, as if nothing ever happened.

As if she never stained her paintbrush with her blood. As if she never left scars on her canvas with a knife. As if she never painted.