When Adelaide begins one of her most famous works, she doesn't know how close she will become to the man in question on the canvas. Her dreams are consummed by this perfect stranger as he lives his life on a battelfield, his voice the only tie between them, as he sings to her, the girl he may never know.
After months of searching, is it possible that she may finally get her chance to meet the boy who readily inspired her heart?
He was still there. He always would be.
At least, until I was finished with him.
I smiled, watching as the canvas came to life, the flurry of greens and browns, the rippling clothing I’d laboured hours over to finish so that I could breathe a sigh of relief.
There he was, the man who’d taken over my dreams with a flicker of a smile on his warm and inviting face.
His hands caressed the rifle he was so well used to toting around on his missions, wearing the standard green and muddy black army clothes with an undeniable amount of pride, his whole being surrounded by what war delivers on a daily basis. Yet-
I knew there was something missing, and as my heavy blue eyes centred on the face I couldn’t suppress that ugly groan I only utter whenever my inspiration has left me. My paint covered hands clung to my black hair in clumps and started to pull as I groaned again. God, this was so annoying!
I couldn’t paint his face!
On the otherwise painted world of ruin and destruction I’d spent hours,days, painting, there was a blank, white blob on this man’s face, and I gritted my teeth. Artists, like me, hate white. Sure, it’s great to try and paint white: it does come in a variety of colours, believe it or not, but come on! I’d given my heart to this piece, and I couldn’t even finish it!!!
I sighed, and got up from my perch in the artist’s studio, staring down my unfinished work with an undisputable amount of animosity. My paintbrush found the jar filled with murky black water as I flung it, and I turned away, looking up to the ceiling for some ray of hope from God that I could come up with a face which would allow me to finish what I’d started. I knew it without even having to ask, that there was no point. God hated me, just as much as my art hated me.
Why couldn’t I complete one, simple face?
Why was it so hard?
Maybe it had something to do with those dreams, I thought, looking down to the floor, almost feeling an emptiness in the pit of my stomach, leaving my otherwise useless hands to clasp themselves around my back. My hair fell forward, billowing around my face in straight curtains of black, and for some reason, I knew the answer.
Of course it was the dreams.
It always was.