Throwen up in an uneven do, the few wisps of hair that
escaped and streched toward the ceiling began to dance to the
pounding
beat that drop from the speakers. Dollps of paint fell from the
frantic swipes of the brush to land on the warm flesh of
her bare feet.
A swipe of the darkest black and a splash of seafoam green,
the final step in the artist's dance, it was finished. A step
back has her criticizing her work. She drops the brush and
throws
the paints. The screeching from the speakers almost cover up the
screams
flying out her lungs. She grabs the painting and throws it
across
the room. As the portrait crashes to the ground, broken, she
slides
to the ground and crushes the picture she just recreated and
destroyed
to her chest.
"Why?" The question drowns in the rough music still escaping the
speakers,
but still she speaks not ever believing her questions could be
answer.
"Why did you do it?"
The grip on the picture she had in her hand tighten to
a destructive pressure, "Why did you leave me?"
A glance across the room has a new wave of emotion coursing
through her blood as she stares at the face of her brother.
"I would have helped you, I could have helped you, but I
didn't know."
She collapse full into herself, the hard, concrete of her basement
floor
does not allot her any comfort.
"I didn't know. I didn't know. I didn't know." Her soft chants
of sorrow turn in shouts of anger as once again she rises
and in a fit of unmanageable anger she grabs the closest thing
in reach and flings it away from her. The
sound of destruction does nothing to sooth the hurting woman as
she
rampages around the basement crushing, throwing, ripping anything
in front of her,
anything to distract her from the void in her chest that
treaten
to swallow her whole. The stereo is ripped from the wall and
the music her sibling used to listen to comes to a halt
as she flings the radio at her newest creation. Another glimpse
at
the painted face of her younger brother has the womans anger
simmer
into wisps of smoke as the sobs take over her body. She
clutches at her own skin, unforgiving in her attempt to escape
this
feeling of guilt.
"It's all my fault, if I had known or done something
different..."
She crawls in the rubble of art supplies and unidentified broken
peices
to the blown up face of her family member.
Gently she runs a lovingly hand across the still wet paint,
smudging
the colors together.
"Why did you have to kill youself?"
Broken free of the restaining tie, the mane of unruly hair
begins
to quiver from the body wrenching sobbs that drop from the
woman
who clutches a picture of a boy to her chest.
Herown