The brush moves swiftly in front of her. A dip inside the paint and back to the canvas. She has been on it for over an hour now – back and forth without really stopping to examine her handwork. This is one thing she knows how to do, the only place she can escape.
Her brows furrow as she draws the final line. Her thoughts are full of him; his smile, the way he talks and walks, the sound of his laughter, the way he gesticulates. She shivers as she remember his gentle touch on her skin, the lazy lines he draws on her with his fingers. Cursing tersely, she dips the brush with more energy than required.
I want to be with you, only you. I love you very much, he had said to her. She remembers vividly. They had been five months in. She, already in love and unsure of how he felt. But all of it was a lie. The signs were there but she overlooked them.
She drops the brush and stares at the painting. This is the fifth one in three days, and she has done it again. His beautiful face stares back at her. He’s always had this innocence about him. They show even in his photos. She wants to stop painting him. She has tried and failed.
Letting her legs give way under her, she drops hard on the tiled floor. She lets the tears fall this time. She has gone soft. Back when she was her father's daughter, he wouldn't have gotten away with it. Nothing goes unpunished. She might have to become that person again. With a gun in her hand, she gets whatever she wants.
I love you and I hate you, she murmurs.
No more painting. It's time for action.
No preamble. Tell me your thoughts.