Leaving his study and heading towards the back of the house, I took one last, lingering look inside my fully equipped art studio next to his office. It was the one side of me that he’d never tried to tame. I’d inherited my mother’s artistic abilities, and here was the only place in the house that gave me some sense of self, that put me back in touch with the girl I used to be. The girl I longed to be again, if that were even possible. Moving into the centre of the room, I ran my fingers over my last canvas creation, which stood on the wooden easel, and sighed. He’d asked me to paint my vision of our love after nearly ten years together. He wanted to hang it in his study for our upcoming anniversary in December.
To the casual observer I’d painstakingly created the most stunning galaxy, implying our love was infinite. Only I knew the meaning behind the apparent beauty of my work.
The black background signified my fear and hatred.
The dark blues were my depression.
The reds my anger.
And the myriad of sparkling stars that some would see as incandescent diamonds, wasn’t the symbolisation of the infinity of our love, but the infinity of torture stretching before me. I was alone, insignificant in my surroundings of a vast nothingness that would consume me and my future if I stayed.
But I wasn’t staying. Not even for another minute.