Elizabeth

Waiting All Life

Every night, I used to paint until I was unable to continue. I left the studio, fingers bleeding and eyes bulging red from strain and an overdose of stale scotch. They say, artists and alcohol are closely related. I never thought that way of blood.

I had finally completed painting the Widowed Virgin. My Elizabeth!

The picture looked almost real. Her eyes, translucent beneath the dark netted veil, shone with lust and longing. Her lips, gently parted, seemed to be quivering with regret. Her pale features were tinged with the blush of youth.

That"s how I left her. Trapped in the seclusion of her lifeless canvas, amidst the warm blood now drying with the turpentine, on the palette. She looked sad. Abandoned!

The next evening, when I entered the studio, trampling over the scattered regular artists" stuff, my eyes got enchanted by the beauty I had created. She still stood there, surprisingly stunning. The closest I had ever come to a "masterpiece".

I was suddenly overcome by an absolute desire to touch her. In a trance, I walked toward the easel and stared at her, mesmerised. The elaborate floral net, veiling the dark beneath her skin, added an aura of secrets to her otherwise vulnerable self.

Ah! The eyes! If only I could stare for hours into those deep luminous pools!

Absent-mindedly, my fingers started running along the coarse texture of the canvas. It felt raw and sticky from the drying paint. My eyes fell on a smear of blood on the bottom right, where the signature ought to have been. That would be a better mark of my hard work!

As I touched her veil, playing a thousand different possibilities in my mind, a strange sensation ceased me. I felt a pull, a pull that seemed to overpower me. It made me feel drunk, unable to control my emotions. Unable to resist. The canvas suddenly felt like smooth silk. Fluid. My fingers seemed to have wrapped around softness. I was groggy.

I don"t recall if I had fainted or fallen asleep. However, when I opened my eyes, the strangest of strange scenes greeted them. The canvas was empty. Where was the beauty I loved?

"Thanks for freeing me", said a sing-song voice. I started to my feet. What was happening? Was my mind playing games with me? Or was it the scotch?

As I searched frantically for this source of voice, a gust of wind threw apart the curtains. My eyes were still disoriented; so I found it really difficult to trust what stood before them.

Elizabeth was sitting on the floor rug, in front of the fireplace, with her back toward me. Dark brown curls had come undone from her graceful bun, and fell carelessly over her bare back.

"You?" I whispered. "How did you? I mean, how did you become real?"

She laughed. A beautiful sound. Like the gushing waterfall, the chimes of a chandelier, the song of the cuckoo. It captivated me. I could keep listening to her all night.

"Why? That"s what you wanted. I could feel your heart. Your heart, which so unconditionally and unknowingly, you put into your paintings."

I turned back toward the portrait uncertainly. Just like before, it was empty. All that remained was the delicate couch, now empty and the intricate tapestry adorning the back wall. The pillows still looked recently slept on, the sheets all scattered in a hurry.

"Why did you make me so pathetic? So naive? So virgin?" She asked me, gradually turning her veiled face toward me. "Have you no pity? All my life, sitting there, a maiden. Are you so surprised I left that dreadful place to fill your empty frame?"

"No. But I am finding it hard to believe. Elizabeth, I"ve waited my whole life to create a masterpiece. And now..."

"You"ve also waited your entire life to fall in love too, haven"t you? I have felt your heart. Why deny yourself the simple pleasures of life?"