~ Oscar Wide
An immature got hold of paints. There were colours he never saw and shades he had never seen in his poor, small life. They were right in front of him, all set on the long table. Right there, he just had to grab them
And he did not resist, resist the temptation to tamper with the things he had never been acquainted with, enter into something strange.. new.. dangerous. The desire was much too great. For once here, I could never blame him
And he did. Opened the plastic tubes and held the tray in his hand. Squeezed them brutally, eyes frantic with crazed light. He did not care, He had no idea nor the simple notion. But I saw what he did to those colours. I saw what he did. I saw the colours rising and falling and dying. I saw it all
I crashed on the floor, waves entering my brain.The books the daffodils from my hands fell on the floor. It was as if the vibrations will split my head apart. There was thunder, I was engulfed in lightening. As if someone had connected me to one end of the terminal and I was thrashing as the current leashed its way through me. I never understood what happened. What really happened. Whether he played with colours or it was really me.
Far from his view I had collapsed on the hard floor, flailing and thrashing. I clutched my head and screamed. He never listened. He had gone too far, he was deaf dumb and blind to everything but what he was doing. There was no coming back for him. Not, for me, either
I beckoned him to stop. Screamed at the torture he was putting me in. As his hand flew across the canvas, fresh waves of pain and agony threatened to rip my body apart. If only he coud stop. If only he would leave some colours to breathe. If only he could stop moving. If only he could stop touching them all. Touching me so brutally
I don’t know whether he ever stopped. Whether he ever was done with his freedom and his desire. All I know is I died in my own painting room. All I know is I died amidst something soft and yellow