Note:I'd like to apologize for the sudden change in choosing other fiction.I'm not too sure about adding romance in the this story
My right hand was already numb from moving it for three whole hours. Covered in red paint, it dropped listlessly on my side. I stepped back and viewed the painting I had finished. I wouldn’t have called it amazing, but it was admirable, in my opinion. As I turned around, I heard the crunching sounds my bare feet made against the old newspapers on the tile floor. I was headed for my bathroom, when the door to my bedroom opened. In walked my mother.
“Hey, what do you –“She didn’t finish her sentence. Her gaze was glued to my new painted wall. The only wall that, before this day, was white. Her eyes were round with alarm, and her mouth was set on a thin line. She didn’t move from her position or utter a single word. She looked like she had seen a spectral image. Finally after what seemed like hours, she became composed and spoke.
“Elizabeth, what is this?”She was staring directly at me. What was I supposed to say to her? I really didn’t see what was wrong. I had done this countless times before. In fact, my entire walls were filled with paintings; some overlapping each other.
“What are– “I was cut off.
“I want to know why you drew such a thing.”She seemed a little shaken up by it. Her eyes seemed to harden until they looked empty.”That’s it. You’re not going to continue with art class.”She then walked out of my room. It took a few seconds for my mind to register what she had said. She couldn’t be serious. I had drawn worse pictures then that one. Some were more gruesome.
I ran down the hallway until I reached her room. I walked in determined to make her change her mind. She would not take this away from me. She was sitting on her bed typing away on her computer. Before I could figure out what exactly I was going to say to her, she stopped and looked up at me.
“Nothing you say will change anything, “She said rather strained. I truly could not understand why that picture had affected her so much. She had seen less pleasant and more detailed ones.
“Why can’t I? I’m still doing therapy.”I replied.
“Yes, but I think letting you continue to draw will only make it worse, “She shifted her gaze back to her computer intending to end the conversation, but I would not let that happen.
“How’s it making it worse? Miss Melina said –“I was raising my voice.
“I don’t care what she said. You are not going –“her voice was getting higher than mine.
“Why can’t we just let this one go?”I was having trouble keeping myself under control.
“Because, I let the others go; the one with the boy being hanged. The young girl chopped up into pieces. The woman being ripped open by who knows what! “Her face was flushed because of the yelling.
”Damn it, Elizabeth. We have been at this for two years now. Don’t you think it’s time to let it go?’’ Her voice had become quite.Her face looked even more tired than before.
I had no idea what to say. She hadn’t exploded like this, since the first time she had seen the drawings. Even then she had just looked at me, and three weeks later I found myself in a different school. I began therapy with different doctors two days later. After a moment of pondering, I finally opened my mouth.
“I’m sorry, “My mother let out a sigh of relief, “but I can’t” her body instantly became rigid. I could have said anything to soothe her, but something in my mind kept telling me to be honest. I actually couldn’t stop. It had been a sudden impulse to draw that; the brown haired girl being killed by a car impact.
When I get the impulses, they are incredible. Sometimes I lose track of time just thinking about an idea. I spent hours actually drawing it. The first impulse had occurred in my gym class.I was doodling absolutely nothing. Then I began to draw a face, arms, legs, and then a knife.
“Well, I guess that’s that, “My mother said softly. Why couldn’t she just let it go? What was so special about that painting?
“Please don’t mom,” My last attempt; begging. I could feel my eyes sting uncomfortable, and I could already feel the liquid run down my cheek. I had never really tried crying for real. I figured my mother would just ignore me and think I was trying to fool her like last time.
“Elizabeth, “She said softly. Her face was gentle. When had she last looked like this? “I really want you to stop this. Please try to understand how I feel.”
How could she begin to understand how I felt? Wasn't I the one with the screwed up mind? God, I was a mess. Tomorrow I’d be back to normal, but tonight I’d let myself have a breakdown.
“Please,” I tried again. My voice was already horse and the tears had stopped. I could tell her resolution was growing thin. I began to wipe away the tears.
“Fine,” she said. The relief I felt was so great I could finally breathe normally again. Knowing that I would still be able to feel the paint brush in my hand made me fell relaxed.
“Thank you, Mom,”
When I returned to my room, I picked up all the newspapers and threw them away. As I did that, I realized I still had paint on me hands. When I was done taking a shower and in bed, I stared at the new drawing on my wall. It was larger than the rest and more realistic.
More bloody.
The girl was small, almost sickly and I had drawn her brown eyes opened. Nothing too dramatic about this one. Though there was one thing that kept bugging me. She somehow had my features.
