The Artist

She sits in the room, painting a picture. The walls are padded. 'Marshmallowy' on a good day, and 'dirty tissuey' on a bad one.

The canvas matches the walls, except for the little girl sitting on a rickety bench in the lower left corner. It's her, except her parallel likeness is entangled in youth.

Her brushstrokes are miscroscopic, precise. She bends over, nose nearly touching her emerging masterpiece.

The girl in the painting looks alive, as she should. A dash of cream colored paint becomes a sparkle in her eyes. A smear of red becomes a flush on her cheeks.

The canvas is a complicated puzzle, and each stroke is a step toward completion.

A mahogany shadow on the bench's underside, and she pauses. Her spine shoots straight up.

Her face is trembling, like her veins are full of simmering water, not blood. Her eyes are like hummingbirds, shifting, darting around. Her paintbrush clatters to her desk.

She retrieves it, threads it through her pointer and middle fingers.

It's a fencing match, with an invisible opponent. A feint. A reposte. A parry. Her brush is her sword, stabbing at the air. Tiny beads of brackish paint splatter all over the floor.

Her breathing is heavy. Each exhalation rustles, like a plastic grovery bag.

One final jab and the bristles are in the paint again, an oozy pool the color of ripe blackberries.

With each stroke there is a scream. She takes her fingernails and drags them through the paint, opening up gashes in the canvas. There is no control. She has to expel the monsters.

A sunburst of pitch black, and she stops.

She observes what's in front of her. Sees what her demons have done this time.

It's heavy and chaotic. A reflection of her mind. There is no start, no end. Just violent strokes of acrylic and tears.

Yet sitting in the corner, smile unwavering, the girl sits, untouched.