The Artist (III)

The Man in White called the security chief: ” we need to be vigilant sir. I want all doors, gates, windows, any pass way under strict surveillance. The Artist is going on a trip, and you know sir, nobody leaves this place easily, without my permission. I bet he is planning for an escape”.

He hung up the phone and turned to The Woman in Blue and asked her: “do you know his parents or any of his relatives?

– No I don’t. And it is weird that he is mentioning a trip. This whole idea makes me unease. You were right to call up the security people.


It was a hot day and he was running across the green field. The smell of blossoming flowers still lingers until this day. This place was his playground. He would play with his friend, the beautiful C. They would invent games every time, they would chase one another, would race and he would always win. She was indeed very beautiful, looking almost like coming straight out of a painting. He loved her so much that he started drawing her face. He drew her again and again until perfection. This is how he became The Artist. And with every new portrait, they were both happy. He’s smiling at this memory, staring at all her portraits right across his bed. It was an innocent and strong love. He solely trusted her and he misses her so much.

But one day, she didn’t show up to the playground. He waited for her for many days, for weeks. He went to her house and knocked on the door; her mom told him that she was terribly ill. He pushed her away and went up to her bedroom. What he saw was painful. She was pale and thin, she lost all her beauty. She slowly turned her face and said to him: “I’m sorry. I am very sick. Promise me that you will keep on painting and think of me while doing it”.

Years have passed since he saw her and this memory never fails to bring tears to his eyes. He never wanted to hurt her; he just wanted to stop her pain. So he came closer to her, put his hands around her neck and strangled her. “I loved her deeply I didn’t want her to suffer” he reminded himself. “Aren’t we supposed to take care of the ones we love?” His feelings are still strong and so are his ideas. To love is to eradicate the pain. To love is to sacrifice. Love requires courage. People teach this but little do they apply what they preach; they are all selfish liars. No wonder the world is crying.

Then he painted her again but this time her features were fading away. This was new and strange to him. It oddly amused him. He smiles then laughs out loud as always. He is free now, free of her haunting face, she is flying very high with the wind. He feels ecstatic; for the first time he knew he did the right thing.

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