Pitch Black, Pale Blue

Pitch black. Pale blue.

Her brush danced over the canvas laid in front of her, colors and shapes blooming across the white space. 

Thunder boomed from outside her bedroom window, rain trickling down the glass pane and onto the sill. Despite the storm lashing out, she left her window slightly open— letting in enough of the strong winds to blow through her blue velvet curtains and kiss her skin. 

Her eyes moved back and forth between the canvas and the window as she tried to catch the details of the beautiful gray sky, and the lightning tearing through the clouds— as if to immortalize the scenic view with her pigments.

Hands on her hips, she stood back from her work and set down her brush and her palette plate. Her heart swelled with pride and joy as she eyed her masterpiece.

Pitch black. Pale blue. 

"It's not good enough. Do it better," a voice said from behind— the girl's mother. She didn't dare turn around to look at the woman. Tears were already threatening to escape her eyes, how could she still face the looming bane to her hopes and dreams?

She tidied the canvas, stashing it away behind a rack of clothes inside her closet— locked in and to never be seen again. 

Pitch black. Pale blue.

She sat on her bed, a journal on her lap and a pen in her right hand—eager to release the ideas spiraling in her mind. She gripped the pen hard, almost tearing the pages of her notebook as she scribbled away the words longing to be let out from their cages.

She felt him before anything else, and so she anticipated the hand that grabbed the journal from her. " It is not good enough. Do it better," her father said as his eyes scanned the unfinished tale of a broken queen in his daughter's handwriting.  Forever etched in her mind is the disapproving look the man gave her whenever he read her writings.

The sound of his footsteps receding did not stop a dark wave of emotions from roiling inside of her. Ripping paper filled the echoing silence, a crumpled piece landing on the carpeted floor. 

Pitch black. Pale blue.

She retreated to the safety of her bed and collapsed against her sheets— dark hair spilling over cream-colored pillows. 

"You're not good enough. You aren't any better, " said she who has been taunting her ever since— her own self. She was the only enemy to her existence, the only bane to her hopes and dreams— not her father, nor her mother, or anyone else.

She closed her eyes, dreaming of a clear blue sky as a streak of black wrapped around her heart—she had a  battle to be won.