Artificial Selection

• Dominique Lubrin, Grade 10, Our Lady Of The Sacred Heart College
• Short Story
• 2015

Excellence Award in the 'Beyond Words 2015' competition

It lay there immobile and innocent on her bed. The paint brush emitted an aura of temptation like the devil and attracted Claire to use it. She glared menacingly at the artisan’s tool because it was completely obvious that it was to blame for her predicament. Not that it wasn’t her fault as well; how could she have the audacity to consider slacking off from her strict regimen of completing school work and studying?
Oh, it would be so easy to lose rocky hard discipline acquired through sweat, blood and tears. A few steps across her room and Claire would quickly reach that elusive brush, then begin to smoothly paint. She would just had to turn her back on her homework and assignments, then everything would be alright. It would provide a temporary release from reality and the schoolgirl would be able to forget everything that plagued her. But….she couldn’t obtain failing grades. Claire had an obligation to perform above the rest. Her parent’s were counting on her to succeed where they failed - they made so many painful and heartbreaking sacrifices for her future. So she shouldn’t be seduced by that heaven-forsaken brush as if she was some sort of mindless sheep.
Claire desperately tried to squash the feelings of boredom and the thought of how easy it would be to just fade away from life into nothingness. If she just grabbed the brush, Claire could in swift, professional strokes with no wasted movement create a masterpiece that would undoubtedly be envied and adored by the world. Claire blushed and awkwardly coughed to herself, clearing any remaining thoughts of her delusional world. Mortified over her loss of self-control, she robotically manoeuvred herself towards the desk that the girl used for the sole reason of business or rather, school work and stiffly plopped down into its twin, an adjoining office chair.
Grasping a nearby pen, Claire’s hand slightly shook in denial over its owner’s (unconscious) absolute rejection of her clear talents, hopes and dreams. Promptly, she dragged the stationary across the paper to swiftly spew out cursive words - Claire’s skilful use of it was similar to an experienced maestro conducting a symphony. Claire tried to reassure and persuade herself to forget about painting, “Let’s not beat around the bush here. Everything relies on you. You can’t fail, you must prosper and triumph. Forget this little daydream that you have here.” It clearly worked. Determination flared in her eyes and the motivation to accomplish the future that her parents wanted her to propelled her mind to focus on the task ahead.
While this occurred, a minute ember that burned through toil and persevered stubbornly during difficult years faded into non-existence. A bright light of a candle with a blazing future snuffed out, falling into the depths of despair and hopelessness like Wendy when she lost the skill to believe that she could fly. Claire’s childhood adorned with tattered shreds of naivety ended at her own choice.