The Lost Canvas
I cried to you once, twice, yet.....
The Lost Canvas
He sat there on his morbid chair eying the painting at hand, that painting that reflected more of himself than what the sitter that he aimed to draw. She was full of life, that painting of his. Colorful, with golden strokes that transcended the locations where her flesh glowed, she breathed and smelled of life. Her cheeks were pale, like the last time she appeared before him. Yet, her eyes always glittered and never died for they shined beyond the luminosity of the brightest stars.
He stared empty handed, looking at the chair which she used to embark so gracefully. Time has taken its toll, and that chair has died as life has been sucked out of it. The chair lies there, right where it used to belong, outdated and lifeless. And so, an inanimate object lies there in the middle of the room between the painter and his canvas. Why was the chair moved to the center of the room to begin with?
And he remembered, and replayed the agony in his heart when she left him, he looked at the floor, the sets of brushes that lay as evidence of his rage, the torn paintings, the splashes of paints, the shredded canvases that cost him a fortune; the shreds of years of love and devotion. They all lay defeated on the floor victims, of his rage.
Was it rage ?
He walked up to the dusty chair, laid a hand on the surface only to be struck my its cold inanimate nature. This chair was once warm, full of life; it was the place where his beloved sat, and god did that old chair resemble a throne when she was seated on top of it. He eyes it carefully, an inanimate dead object that once was alive, that once spoke of love, that once spoke of a beating heart, that once was the source of life pumping through his veins. Now, an empty vessel it lays there, the victim of time that feeds on its core bit by bit until it shreds its mere existence.
Indeed, it was time that betrayed them, yet he always believed that he lived in his own fairytale, and one day that world of his will crumble, little did he know that day would come way too early. He stared eyes open wide, trying to absorb the remaining hue in that portrait of hers. It has been seven years since she left and seven years of dust have left trail on her only remnants.
Seven treacherous years indeed, have caused the life to slip out of the pores of the canvas. Seven years of dust, particles that remind him of eternal loss, seven years of desolation, have left their mark on it. He eyes the beauty of his work. Was it his work? It was the Maker’s work!
Yet it was also the Maker’s decision to rip her off his chest. He cast a shaky wrinkled finger on her cheeks, closed his eyes playing memories of her playing the piano, singing and dancing, and tried to visualize her in full form. He sighed as he opened his eyes, he has lost track of her once again. He closed them forcefully, remember he ordered himself and strained his memories to go back as much as he can to discover what his portrait lacked. “Remember all those times, remember how she sheltered you with her love, remember!”, yet again he was left clueless, so he opened his eyes staring wholeheartedly at those blue eyes of his beloved. What did he miss that made the portrait look dead ?
He landed another stroke on her forehead, down to her light blond hair as if toying with her curls, down to her neck and he posed. He could almost catch the glimpse of a memory of hers asking in the sun reading a book. He inhaled forcing gusts of air into his lungs. He approached the painting trying to catch a tint of her smell and he closes his eyes again. Oh yes, it was that book “The Portrait of Dorian Gray”.
He stared helplessly trying to feel the heat from her body, trying to sense a pulse from that life-size portrait, trying but failing miserably. How come that portrait look so lifeless just like his beloved “Simone”.
Suddenly, he froze as if lightening has struck him. Petrified he eyes the canvas at hand. It has never occurred to him that the girl in the portrait did not resemble his beloved Simone. She lacked the life that she portrayed. He tapped his finger nail on the girl’s cheek “nooo no no no, this is wrong!” Out of nowhere, he started pacing around the room, like a trapped animal he exhaled. Then, like a beggar he was on four digging in the rubbish and ruins of his old painting life. Where was it when he needed it? Where the hell would it have gone? Digging hysterically, he found a brush, then, he ambushed the paint tubes that lay on the floor. Regardless to the dust he fanatically squeezed out the red out of the tube. “This is wrong!” this is not her red, her lips where brighter, her cheeks were glowing with a taint of natural blush. She was full of life, and that color did not give her that touch. He scrapped the remaining tubes on the floor none satisfied his thirst. He crumbled on the floor shattered and defeated again by life and its treacherous plans. Without that missing element he knew his painting would remain dead; it would never awaken and remain the hostage of Morpheus.
He ran to the kitchen fanatically searching the drawers and came back to his beloved soon to be Simone. He placed that rusty object on his wrist and made a slit. As blood gushed out, he took his brush, gently like a professional passed the thin hair on the bright color. Gently, he swayed his instrument over the portrait’s lips. “Careful”, he told himself as he gently spread the new red on her lips. With another stroke, her lips were beaming with life. With another, the paint brush’s tip was on his open wound, gently placed, gently soaked, gently lifted and dried. Gently, he placed the brush to give her cheeks some rosy color. Like the professional painter that he is, he lifted his hand gently and eyed his work. What a masterpiece; finally, it looks like Simone. Her glittering eyes, her red lips and lively rose cheeks, are all there. fanatically Later, he signed his portrait under the initials SK, and titled it as The Lost Canvas.
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