Regular As Clockwork
Not such a fan of this one, though ironically enough I feel quite similar to the character in the story.
Maybe I'll feel her sense of relief tomorrow?
Colour splashed across the canvas as the painter began her work, the soft tip of her brush dipping into the thick paint that spilled across the previously blank cloth.
She gently drew her brush across the white canvas; making elegant lines with the red paint that stained the material. When at last she had finished with the web of lines on the canvas she carefully washed her brush, watching offhandedly as the paint dissolved in the thinner.
She had been painting like this for three days now. On and off spurts of creativity that nearly forced her to work, an immovable wall of force that bowled over any flimsy excuse her mind could muster. Naturally she took breaks, every three hours she would rise from her hunched over position; popping her back and massaging feeling back into her tired limbs. Every three hours, regular as clockwork.
She stared into the inky thinner she had placed next to her, gazing languidly at the red paint slowly melting off the bristles of the brush. As she watched the water gradually cloud over in a shade of red she spoke out loud to herself, the sound of her own voice surprising her.
“Blood and water…” she paused, not sure where the thought was going.
A sigh escaped her lips and she removed the brush from the thinner, tenderly wiping it down and checking the bristles. Next she removed the lid from her next shade, a brilliant yellow to compliment the pre-existing red. She moved to dip her brush into the thick paint when suddenly a shrill ring pierced through the air.
She jumped. One hand clutching her chest and the other firmly holding the brush she glanced around the room… and realized that the annoying sound was coming from next to her. Her timer set for every three hours had trilled loudly.
She made to stand up, her muscles groaning in protest, before a groan from her own lips joined them. In her previous panic she had knocked the brilliant yellow paint onto the canvas, and now her elaborate spider web of red was being overwhelmed by an onslaught of the bright colour.
She cursed loudly, her shriek matching pitch with the still beeping timer. Dropping to her knees she desperately attempted to save the painting, drawing the best patterns she could with the viscous paint.
She lost track of time, sweat forming all across her body as she gently traced forms out of the bright yellow paint. At last she finished, a final stroke completing an incredible lattice of red and yellow intertwined with each other in an elaborate pattern. And in the very center of this lattice were two large globs of paint mixing and creating a new colour.
She smiled. For once she was really satisfied with a work she had done, for once she had really felt ‘in touch’ with her artwork. It was an incredible feeling for her, something that she had yearned for since she had first begun art.
All throughout her working life she had been painting commissions for people, never truly feeling like her heart was in it—but this…accident made her feel a sense of satisfaction she had only dreamed of.
She stepped back to glance at her work, unmindful of the now silent timer laying on the ground behind her, and with an earsplitting crack the timepiece announced both its presence and its demise.
Oddly enough, she felt unperturbed by this. Bending down she gently cradled the ruined thing in her arms before turning and tossing it in the garbage.
She had art to do.