The Bright Colours of Misery [COMPLETED]

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙵𝙸𝙵𝚃𝚈 𝙵𝙸𝚅𝙴 -The Bright Colours Of Misery-

That pinboard, down the street from her apartment, was photographed about two days later by an American soldier, because it had gained some attention, and the images were rather intriguing. Wilma burning the uniform, in particular, must have caught his attention. The photographs made it to the newspapers in both America and England Heidi was entirely unaware of it, but myths and speculations were starting to form around those three initials that appeared in the top left corner of each and every painting.

In early 1946, Heidi got herself a job as the assistant of a grocer called Helena, it was a very small shop and it didn't exactly have the best income, but that didn't matter to Heidi at all. After the end of the war and finishing school she couldn't get into any university or higher education, so she naturally had to find a job, and lacking experience and skills there were limited options, besides, she really liked the shop and its owner Helena, who was about 70 years old and rather bitter, but witty and wise like no other. She sometimes reminded her of an angry Gertrude Meyer, which made Heidi smile from time to time. Her day was rather simple, and consisted of a few interactions with customers and a lot of organising their different groceries into the right shelves and then counting the profits of the day, and making all the rationing cards were in order. She would then go home, to share with Wilma and they would talk about their day to one another. This little routine had one exception, and those were Saturdays, where Heidi had no less than 5 hours of free time at the end of the day. She would take her bike—the first one she had actually bought for herself and not stolen—equipped with old and used art supplies and just cycle around, always in search of interesting shapes and colours or stories, to paint. She would paint everything from a random duck in the park to a couple walking down the street.

She never kept them for herself, but she signed them. I never quite understood why although I have my theories, just as many as certain artists and critics who stumbled upon these paintings, by 1949 all these half anonymous paintings started truly intriguing Berlin's inhabitants, they weren't exactly extraordinary, or in many cases well preserved, but they appeared everywhere around the city. Sometimes the subjects in the images would find them, as if the person who had painted them was always watching, which amazed some and terrified others. The mystery around Hsf's art and identity was growing rapidly, and Heidi kept it all to herself, she didn't know anyone to know who she was. However, that is not to say she didn't enjoy the attention, she did. Because she could use it to spread messages. In the 1950's, she began writing on the artwork, or on the back of it, about anything from political things to small stupid opinions, the more time passed, the less of a filter she had, and the louder she got.

It was a pleasure to watch her at that time, she was confident in a way she had never been before. She cut her hair, and changed her style, to the point where she would look at herself in the mirror, and for once think that she was enough. She always carried her mother's rosary around her neck, which sometimes seemed to scare people into thinking she was very religious, but she simply couldn't take it off, same with Trudy's purple coat,she was known for it among her neighbours and few friends.

However, there were still moments, when I saw the shy, broken and confused young girl she had been in 1943, as you would expect, she never recovered from what had happened to her, because it was impossible, you can't unsee such things, you can't help but feel it sometimes. The scars might have been healed but they would never go away, and no one expected them to in Heidi's case, which saved her a lot of issues. Birthdays were especially hard for Heidi, not only because the date was so close to that of the Air raid that had destroyed her life, but because with every single one, she was growing further and further away from Frieda. She would usually start crying at some point during the day, every single year, missing her voice, her demeanour, and accepting the fact they didn't look alike anymore.

In 1953, when Heidi turned 26, ten years after her twins death, Wilma gave her something she thought she had lost to the explosion, like most things in her life. When she got home from work, Wilma had lit a few candles, and set the table.

"How was work, Heidi?" She asked with a smile, adjusting a few things on the table, such as the small floral decoration she had laid out on it. Heidi smiled at her.

"Nothing much, I feel like Helena's getting a bit old." She chuckled. Wilma nodded slowly and smirked at her.

"Well so are you, Heidi." She teased, pecking her cheek like a proud old grandma. "Twenty-six! You're getting so old!"

Heidi rolled her eyes and sat down on her chair, admiring the decor with wide and almost childish eyes.

"And how old are you, Wilma? Huh?" Heidi shot back, Wilma raised her hands up in defence. "Let's not discuss my age today, it is irrelevant, young lady. It's your birthday not mine."

Heidi rolled her eyes again, and released her hair from the capture of her many hairpins.

"You truly shouldn't attempt to straighten it so much, your hair is lovely." Wilma said with a touch of sadness. Taking a few strands of it into her hand.

Heidi shook her head. "I only do it because I feel like it sometimes," She assured her. "I like my hair."

Wilma smiled softly, I could see the pride and happiness shine through her eyes, two sentiments that I very much shared with her.

"Well, I have something for you," Wilma eventually said, changing the subject and breaking the brief silence. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a medium sized triangular present, wrapped in brown paper, tied neatly with a red ribbon.

"Happy birthday, Heidi." she said, sliding it across the small table.  My dear person picked it up and held it between her fingers as if it were the most sacred thing she'd ever held, and it honestly might have been, looking back on it.

She laughed a little at Wilma's expression as she slowly unwrapped it.
"Don't be so impatient Wilma," She scolded with a warmhearted laugh. Wilma rolled her eyes.

"Don't Open it so slowly then!"

Heidi rolled her eyes, mirroring her sister. Finally she got the part where she pulled the object out of its packaging, and as soon as she saw it she froze. A major sense of deja vu hit her like a ton of bricks. She had received this tiny little handmade book before, but it had been empty. This one wasn't empty, and it was stained with watercolours, just like the last time she had seen it.

"How-" She croaked as she opened it, to flip through her own 10 year old artwork. Wilma smiled widely and joined her, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. Her eyes fell upon a multitude of colours and memories, her mother and helga dancing, Christmas eve 1942, Alexander on his bike, proudly cycling down Apfelstraße, Gisela and Manfred hugging each other, wrapped in two blankets because of the cold. She flipped through slowly, taking every detail in, it felt as if a part of her life had been frozen until now, and this little book was melting it all back into life, perfectly preserved, bright and colourful.

Heidi started crying uncontrollably, pouring water like the stone fountain down the street and Wilma hugged her tightly.
"Thank you," Heidi whispered. "Thank you so much." Wilma nodded slowly, stroking her hair.
"I took it with me when you had filled it, hoping you wouldn't notice. I have missed you so much..."

Heidi chuckled in a sniffle. "I didn't even notice."

Wilma shook her head. "But now you can. I thought, maybe it was time you named this collection of paintings, after ten years."

Heidi sat back down, and flipped through it again, wondering if she should, and in that case, what name she would give it, I whispered my idea into her ear, and as if a light switch had gone of in her head, she found herself a pen, and some ink, and on the first blank page of the book she wrote, without the shadow of a doubt:

The Bright Colours of Misery