The Painter

A painter.
Upon an evening.
The light yet vanished.
Her strokes diligent yet wary from the dark.
As most she had her misgivings.

Doubts of that torrent of paint on canvas ever reaching another set of eyes.
Would the night swallow them whole?

This was an answer we knew.
Humans might have called it sad.
Yet this time the blame would not be upon us.

A last streak of red covered the canvas; the last she would ever paint.
Her neck twisted 'round to see the jealous fiend.

An old man.
Fury in his eyes.
Eyes that had watched the painter for many months.
Unbeknownst to her.
They were jealous eyes.
Green ones.

Her neck only reached so far however.
The crossbow bolt in her throat made it so.
In desperation she turned back to her canvas.


The final streaks of red.

Truly painted from within.