The Scar

The Painting!

I carefully walked towards the house. I had covered my scar as much as possible. I hoped immensely that no one could see it. I was walking towards the yellow house, which was forbidden for anyone to go to. The yellow houses are considered to be the deadly ones. I and my family live in a red-colored house, considered to be a healthy, strong, and majestic one, emitting a happy, kind force that brightens everyone's day. As for the yellow houses, people were found to have bleeding scars all over their bodies, as if they'd died and come back to life with the scars still visible, yet still acting nourished and healthy. I am here to study why everyone from yellow houses was always scarred physically and would die the day they came out of the houses. People from red houses weren't supposed to have scars, and here I was, wearing a blood-colored mask blanketed on my jaw to hide the red scar dripping blood astride my face.

I opened the resplendent, amber door as it creaked loudly, to find cracked walls, holes on the dusty ceiling, and a noisy and creaky, dust-covered wooden floor. Around the house there was nothing, but staring at me was a blank piece of canvas sitting on a dark-wooden easel. I was tempted to use the beautifully colored paints and the soft-bristled paintbrush sitting on a small, yellow stool, standing next to the bright easel. I was here to study this house, but nothing was here to do, except to paint a picture, which I'm not good at. So I decided to leave, but I looked behind me, I stared in awe. There was no door, how will I get out?

So since there was nothing to do, I decided to paint something. A tree. A laurel tree to be exact. My mother loved the pretty trees. I thought of her as I chose from the spectrum of colors spread across the bright, yellow stool. My mother died when I was 6, due to cancer. I was raised by my abusive father, but at least I had my grandma, who would tell me wonderful stories about ... well everything! The thought made me tear up a little, and one drop fell on the branches of the tree and added more texture to it. I giggled at it as I glided my green-dipped paintbrush along the canvas to add the leaves of the tree. Funny how such a simple plant can flood so many memories into one's mind. I added yellow highlights into the oblong leaves, the light blue into the lavender flowers, and finally signed off my name, Daphne.

But as I released my right hand from the canvas, my left hand started approaching it. I wasn't controlling it! As my hand stuck to the canvas like a strong magnet, my other hand started approaching the canvas as well. As my right hand laid a finger on the bristly canvas, my whole body felt attracted to it like I was the metal, and the canvas a strong magnet. I tried to resist it as much as possible. I noticed that now my hands weren't stuck, but they had disappeared into the canvas! The force was immeasurable, so powerful. I couldn't control it for long. Before I knew it, I got stuck to the canvas as if the canvas was using me as a brush to paint itself. Then like the hand, I moved into the canvas. By 'into' I mean into. Like literally in the canvas.