Where Is My Color Now by, Kassandra

   

   I used to paint every day, every hour, every minute, and every second. I could see the colors, the way they came to life, the way they told a story. My dreams, my heart, my soul—all were splattered on the canvas. That was until I was left alone. Loneliness killed my art. The paintbrush was poisoned, the paint was rotten, and the canvas was damp. All the colors went black. How could I paint without him in my life; he brought the rainbow into my rainy days. He’s gone. I’m alone. My hands cease to paint.

                Life was better five years ago. My hand would draw the most beautiful and unique painting the world has ever seen. My studio was my home. Classy brown hard wood floors and a beautiful mural done by myself were what was immediately seen once walking in. Next were the tall 10-foot windows draped with red curtains that had occasional dashes of paint splatters. My apartment was in the Bronx, but I usually spent weeks staying at the studio. For moments like those I had a soft black couch in the corner of my studio. Luckily it flipped into a bed as well. I also kept a duffle bag full of clothes and basic overnight necessities. It felt right to sleep where I was at my most creative. Now I try not to step into that studio. It’s a bitter reminder of the person I was, the person I want to be but never can again. A ghost lives there now, filled with memories, and is forever trapped in the past. Her name is Anabelle.

                An artist can find inspiration anywhere—a book, movie, TV show, music, books, and life experiences—honestly. What seems like a century ago, I used to be able to paint with music as my muse. However one December night something changed that, rather someone. Tall, about five feet and eight inches tall. Handsome, sandy brown hair, light tan skin that glistened in the sun, and violet-blue eyes that could make any girl melt. God, do I miss those eyes.

                December, a time of joy and love. The year about to reach an end. 2020 about to begin. But where am I? My heart is still stuck in 2015. I met the owner of the violet eyes while it snowed as my painting was struggling to join this world. Music only took me so far. My art began to suffer. I needed something new to paint. Then came those violet eyes. His name was Roman. As the snow fell, our eyes met and everything changed. I can still remember that first moment when all I wanted to do was say “Hi” and then just paint. There was something about those eyes that just spoke to me. Luckily, I didn’t have to go to him seeing as he was already coming to me

                “I’ve never seen someone with hair as black as yours.” Roman told me.

                I couldn’t believe that’s what drew him to me. Most men would come to me because of my chest. But Roman was different. Raven black hair—that’s what drew him in. “Thanks and I’ve never met someone with eyes as beautiful as yours. And, yes, I can use the word beautiful—artist’s privileges and all.”

                Roman laughed. It wasn’t a cruel laugh or a pitiful one or a scared one. It was a genuine laugh. He asked for my name. I said Anabelle. He asked for my age. I said twenty-two. He asked for my job. I said artist. He asked to see me again. By then I knew it was too late. My muse couldn’t be anyone or anything but him. Days became months. Months became years. Roman was on my mind all the time. Where was he? What was he doing? Is he home? What is he cooking tonight? How many kisses will we share tonight? Would he laugh if I told him I want to learn how to cook? Everything I did, I did with him in mind. When I was with Roman I tried so hard to look perfect. I can’t explain why I tried so hard.

“You look perfect in sweat pants and your black bleach stained shirt.” Roman told me once while laughing and shaking his head.

In short, Roman was everything to me. Never did I imagine life without him. I loved him—still do. He was my eternal muse. Paintings were created every day. If I was stuck he would kiss me and a new piece was born. A lot of paintings were made. Thousands of kisses were shared. Each one unique. Each one wild. Each one spontaneous. Each one beautiful. Each one filled with love. Each painting and each kiss drove me to my personal heaven. I was happy. I was in love. I was painting. Then the world went black.

911. The number you hope you never have to call. I sat frozen. Life was taken from him and life is taken from me. The bright flashing red and blue lights came all too late. Where were they ten minutes ago? Dam it! Why him? Why take such a good man from me? The desire to end it right here is strong. Roman would want me to live. It was our fifth anniversary. That night was the end of my art and my life. Roman acted strange as the day went on. While at dinner he asked if I loved him as much as I loved to paint. The answer was simple. I loved him more than life itself. I loved him more than any painting. I loved him so much that my heart hurt. I depended on him and knew I wouldn’t survive without him. He loved the answer.

                “I had to make sure it would be a definite ‘yes’.” He gave me a sly smile and as he was blushing got down on one knee and said “Will you marry me and paint with only me as your muse?”

                I cried and jumped on him. Kissing him a million and one times. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

                No one knew that was our last night of happiness. On our way home we were crossing the street and lost in each other. We were so drunk on love that we didn’t see the car beaming at us until it was too late. I was safe because of Roman. He pushed me out of the way. But he couldn’t save himself. The car hit him and all I could do was sit and watch as the man I loved lie on the ground fighting for life. I ran. I ran for what seemed like eternity. I cried and yelled for help. It wasn’t any use. Roman was slipping away. I hugged him and pressed my ear against his heart. He ran his fingers through my hair and spoke words I will never forget.

                “Ana. My Anabelle. I love you. I love you so much. It was a miracle I got to meet you. It was a blessing I got to love you. What we have is true and will last forever. I know this. I’m sorry I can’t stay any longer. Please fight to live on. Remember our time as a treasure and paint forever.”

                As his voice got weaker so did his heart. I kissed him one final time. The words “I love you” were the last words Roman said to me. The road, cold as ice, took two lives that night. The siren from the ambulance woke me up and brought me back to the hell I am forced to live. Where is the light in the darkness I am now living in? As the night went black so did my soul. The moonlight was bright and the solitude I felt was all that was left.  I’m sorry Roman. I’m sorry I couldn’t fight. I’m sorry I can’t paint. I miss you but I can’t paint without you. I promised I would marry you and you would be my eternal muse. I will find my color again someday. When my time is done, I will come to you and then we will have a love that lasts forever and an eternity to paint. Until then my love.