The Pain Behind the Paint

A very, very short story.

 

Once there was a little girl named Tristyna.  She painted a picture of pretty flowers and used bright colors because they made the flowers pretty and that’s the way it was.  She gave it to her daddy and he said it was beautiful and he picked her up and hugged and kissed her.  He said she was his little artist, his little girl.  She showed it to her mommy and her mommy told her it was beautiful and found the perfect frame and hung it in the living room.  And the little girl went to play with the little boy next door.

            Once there was an adolescent girl named Tristyna. She painted a picture of a garden with many colors because it made all of the flowers unique, but they still fit in.  She showed it to her teacher and her teacher gave her an A and told her that she had talent.  She took it home and showed it to her daddy and he said it looked good, but that he and mommy had to go to an important meeting and they’d hang it in the living room later.  She showed it to her mommy and asked her about the meeting and her mommy agreed with her daddy and said that the meeting was of no concern to the girl.  They left and the girl went to the movies with the boy next door and he kissed her.

            Once there was a teen girl named Tristyna. She painted a picture of a single rose.  She used dark, deep, and rich colors because they best showed that it was intriguing but saddened, beautiful but hurtful, and that was the way it was.  She showed it to her professor and he told her it was a beautiful, but melancholy, work of art, and he looked at her intently.  She took it home and showed her daddy, he said it was beautiful but he couldn’t stand it there anymore and that he was leaving.  She went to find her mommy, painting in hand, and her mommy saw it and said it was too damned depressing and that she didn’t want it in her living room.  The girl cried and let the boy next door hold her even though her daddy didn’t want him to and he told her the painting was the most beautiful one she’d ever painted.

            Once, Tristyna skipped school and she was with the boy next door, but when they got to the living room her Dad kicked the boy out and threatened him and he told her that she was a w***e for being with the boy.  She looked at her mommy and her mommy never said a word.  ­­­­And the girl went to her room and told the boy that she was sorry and she painted her bed with the blood from her wrists because she regretted that that was the way it was.

Reviews

[Charles Petrie]

Whoa, harsh. But beautiful. A downing of an ender, with her killing herself, but that is the face of suicide. Would be curious to read a followup tale about the father, the mother and the boy.

And this was written by a teenager. Who knew teenagers could write this well. 8-)

A fair point about the flow with the once opener of each paragraph, all the same would work better.

[Dawn Jones]

Wow, that was both beautiful and incredibly depressing! You lose some flow with her name in and out. If you are going to use it then you should sue it throughout. I really like this. Its so sad and heartfelt. You and your beautiful teen angst.