[nsw-fic] [Shortie] - The Brush and Palette For Words That Are Gone Unsaid

[The_Catto]

Hey peoples. Long time no see, eh! ... Busy, busy, busy is my life. Annoying at times but I do make time to write. Some of you who read this and have seen my Poetical thread will likely notice a familiar essence floating around in this one shot.

Hop you all enjoy it!

 

 

 

 

The Brush And Palette For Words That Are Gone Unsaid

 

 

[align=center]‘Good-bye.’[/align]

 

Her eyes are what captured me first.

 

Eyeliner as black as night raced around these piercing eyes of hurt; these eyes showed more than just green-blue iris’s. They told stories of pain, of misled desire, of unchained hope, and then more pain. It was so saddening to my heart that I became addicted to her right there and then. She was everything to me, and yet, I hardly knew her at all.

 

She reminded me of a painting I once seen. I forget the name of the artist at this very moment, but that picture is still as vivid in my mind after all these years as if I had only seen it yesterday.

 

It was of a room with a chair next to a window. There was no colourful hue in this picture. It was all black, white, and grey.

Except for outside the window.

There were green hills, blue sky and the faint outline of streamers of some kind. But that was not the most intriguing aspect of this picture. No, that was what was in the chair. It was the same height and width of the typical young girl: ponytails, hands folded in her lap; feet crisscrossed with each other, and although the shape was distinguishable there was no detail to this young girl.

 

No features at all were recognizable except for one thing: her eyes.

The rest of her body was all but a void created from having too much darkness within. The charcoal mixed with the flowing swirls of paint gave no form to this shadowy sorrow, although her pupil-less eyes were able to stare straight into my soul. As I looked upon this haunted scene of discouraged grace, I heard endless whispers of never-ending songs and poems of loss within my mind.

 

It was exactly what I heard when I looked into the eyes of the woman that I was addicted to.

 

 

[align=center]‘Sleep now.

There will be no more worries for you.

Call me if you need anything.’

[/align]

 

 

Her hair was long and black. With streaks of green, red, blue and purple, her hair was the perfect example of a gothic rainbow. Her skin was rather pale, milky white even and it contrasted with her red lips beautifully.

 

Fingernails painted in every single colour created and undiscovered.

 

Her clothes were that of maybe, a nineteen-fifties movie star who had fallen on hard times, or they could have even been of a princess, lost from her time in the space in which there were no other spaces.

 

I could not figure out which for in spots, the fabric was torn – deliberately or not, I do not know – but in others, the strings of cloth and stitch were so perfectly hand-sown that when combined with the jewellery that covered her fingers, wrists and neck, they shown more than just golden shine. They had shown a resemblance of a star amongst stars, an ember in the un-piercing and unfaltering darkness of space.

 

She was beauty in all its purity and I loved her.

For a time…

 

 

 

‘Take a deep breath now,

Never forget the feeling I had for you.

You don't have to say anything.’

 

 

I was so infatuated with her that thoughts of her always crossed my mind. I thought I could die for her, I thought I would kill for her… Pathetic, isn’t it? The lengths love and obsession will drive you to if you are not wary.

 

She asked me once. She asked me if I could die for her, but just as I was about to answer, I stopped myself. I couldn’t bear to hear myself say it out loud. This woman, this … ideal, that I had come to know and love, scared me to death. Her vision haunted my dreams, sent shivers down my spine and at every glance made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. But for all of that fear, I could not bring myself to abandon her. She had stories of the darkest side of life, a first hand insight into the minds of ancient devils and evil, merciless tyrants. I was fascinated by them, if not just a little disturbed.

 

But my heart held steady, despite the screaming’s of my mind inside.

 

 

‘I will always try to remember

everything that I have to forget,

but something that will always stick with me,

is how you played me like a marionette.

 

I'm not angry.

I'm not sad.

 

I'm content.’

 

 

We think of what things we want and believe that nothing is too big of a price to pay to get. But do we really know the price? No, we never do. And despite mankinds so called ‘evolution’, when it comes to things such as lust or love, it seems that even if the price is too big in reality, we just don’t care. It is a horrid thing. It is a beautiful thing, but a horrid thing nonetheless.

 

But as I continue to think, I begin to believe that I forgive her … and myself.

 

I forgive the forays into the mind of the devil.

 

To outsiders, this may seem cliché and unbelievable, but if you knew what I know, then you would understand it is anything but cliché and unbelievable.

 

 

*

 

 

‘I wish I could feel more.

I know I'll miss you.

It's proven, as my heart is still sore.

I will always miss you.’

 

 

This story has no true beginning, middle or end. Just a continuous path winding around hills of despair, and routes that swim through the blackest seas of mediocrity and pleasure. Love is such a trivial thing. It binds us together, two souls as one, but with one little mishap, if that love is strong enough, it spells the doom for us all.

 

 

‘Your laugh,

my smile,

our life will be a life forever.

 

It's enough,

for a while,

until the next time we'll be together.’

 

 

And as I continue on this trail of hope and unrivalled misery, my mind goes back to that painting…

 

With the bars on the window and the lush aura of the outside the name of it suits it perfectly in my opinion.

 

 

“The Brush and Palette for Words That Are Gone Unsaid”

 

 

A perfect depiction into the inners of the distorted mind … when most eyes gaze upon this piece of art, they are drawn to the window: Looking and hoping that that is what can be, they do not look inside the room, not at what is.

 

The young shadow girl, sitting by herself in the chair staring at you with a sadness and grim determination that goes unseen and a voice of terrorized beauty that goes unheard. Nothing will be for her; no one will save her from that prison, or from herself.

 

Because the truth is, you cannot save people from themselves. It is a false reality and a useless dream to cling to. If the world would stand, look to the sky and finally, truly, realize that then the world would be a far better place than what it is today…

 

‘I just wish you had given it another chance.

I hate you, but I love you.

It's sad really.

It's something I cannot get.

I'll never forgive you. I'll never respect you again.

But I'll always miss you.’

 

[align=center]*[/align]

 

Her eyes were the things that captured me first. Be it from the painting or of my troubled gothic obsession, the eye’s are the tunnel to the soul and once you look into something so distressed, yet calm, there is no going back.

 

You start to tumble down an all too familiar rabbit-hole. All you can do is try to hold onto your sanity and hope you do not lose it before the end of your journey…

 

‘Good-bye...’

 

 

[align=right]The End.[/align]

[machievelli]

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