The painting was red and white.
Every time Jen looked at it the colors got deeper, more mixed and blended together until she realized what it was: a rose. It was a rose.
A single, wilting rose, with perfectly blended ruby red petals and a harsh black stem. She didn't know why she didn't see it before.
She saw it now.
She got out of her bed and slowly dragged her feet over to the painting, willing her whole body to fight the pull of gravity with each step. With each tug of her body, she got closer to the painting. To the red, red rose.
Jennifer put one hand on the wall and touched her hand to the painting with the other. Just to see. Just to feel the texture of the canvas underneath her fingertips.
Her mother always told her not to touch paintings.
She laughed at that thought, and then her face fell as she felt something else along the canvas, something that came off on her fingers.
It was red.
She woke up.
