Joined: 31 Jan 2011
I didn’t understand.
What a blissful oblivion.
Though I’d seen the pool of liquid- the color of scarlet,
I had merely assumed someone had been painting.
A lovely portrait, like the picture I had in my necklace.
It was my mother. Her face was blank- emotionless.
I was asleep, of course. It was dawn.
I heard the door creak open, I held the covers up to my chin.
There was breathing, I could tell. It was a man.
He stood there for 2 minutes, I tried to keep still.
Soon enough, the door shut loudly.
I panicked; mother surely would not let them in the house.
My instinct told me to follow him, so I did.
I knew the door would be loud; therefore I opened it with caution.
Walking down the halls, I heard a scream. It was blood curdling.
I was taken aback; I couldn’t help but gasp.
One of the biggest mistakes I had ever made.
The man, the figure in my room- he was there.
His hand was covered in blood, he was clutching a knife.
His expression much like mother’s in the portrait.
The last thing I ever received from my mother.
The only thing I could remember.
It was a pool of blood. Of course, no one would be painting at that hour.
The last breath I took, I could only utter the words, “Mother.”
For the last time I would see her, it would be in the painting.
The last memory, the last token I had.
I could not live with myself that way.
So I made a portrait. My life was a great work of art.
No one ever got the chance to paint it.
I couldn’t let that happen.
I remembered my mother telling me something.
Artists usually never become famous until death.
So I made a promise to myself.
I would become a famous artist, just like my mother.
you can't write if you can't relate