Strokes of Ruby

By Ava Klidas

I lie awake at midnight. The wall clock hums its repetitive tune; its monotonous rhythm carries me to the familiar tapping of my brush on its wooden palette in the ripe evening. Each stroke brings me contentment, and drifts me off into a voluntary sleep. 

I lie seemingly awake once again, in the comfort of my bed. I feel between unconsciousness and consciousness—my limbs in rest, my mind in chaos. An undefined shadow corrupts me as my thoughts scamper about. I glance in the corner to see her: a haunting soul of beauty. 

Her light skin stands out in contrast to the night as her brunette, luscious hair compliments its paleness. Her features are slightly blurred to my sight, but her mere essence radiates beauty. She’s quite angelic; however, with further observance, her eyes make my heart drop from its comfort. Their orbs speak with malice, screaming their message through my soul itself. I can feel it deep within me—an ongoing wail desperate to let its screws loose.

* * *

It is now early morning. My love asks if I had a rough night, and I hesitantly tell her no. She observes me for seconds more, and glances away to our breakfast. Once done, I tell her I am to service myself to my art, and she lets me be. 

My piece is not yet finished. Its color lacks definition, so that is my focus. I must focus. My love says focus will help me, so I do so. I gently pick up my brush and dawdle its tip in the paint. Once it’s covered in just the right amount, I place it delicately on my canvas. Stroke after stroke, I indulge in portraiture, though I can’t exactly pinpoint what my mind desires to paint. Nevertheless, I continue. 

* * *

I don’t like eating lunch, though I am not sure why. My love knows this, so at noontime, she offers me a snack instead. However, something feels off—and hunger does not come to me, so I tell her so. Her features furrow, and she mumbles under her breath. It is worrisome; how upset she gets when I don’t eat. I can’t seem to understand why. 

To blur the confusion, I resort back to my painting, though this time its features hint at a  familiarity. I add a bit of red, though I can’t place why. 

* * *

After a few hours of painting, my love calls my name, and I quickly respond. However, my arm softly taps my painting on accident, and it tilts on its axis until it topples onto the ground. I crouch low to pick it up, and notice the corner has smudged slightly. 

After fixing the corner, I ponder my piece. I decide to observe its beauty from afar today, though I usually wait until my work is in its complete form. 

She is unfinished; a beauty in the works. However, I can see her features forming, and I sense a familiar warmth in my heart when I glance at her. She dresses in a plaid dress, and her brunette hair elegantly falls down her sides, framing her faint smile. Surrounding her is a kitchen, similar to ours, and upon the counter is a fulfilling meal in the making. A ruby red necklace dangles from her neck, a centerpiece in the art of her etherealness. She represents… love. So much love. 

My love. Oh, my love. 

Why yes, at first sight, her love seeps into me—it's contagious aura provides me with solace. But the longer I gaze, the more her smile grows into its discomforting smirk; the more substance she pours into the food she is covertly cooking in her portraiture. 

What is my love doing?

She calls for me again, saying it is suppertime. Oh, how the time passes by. I attempt to brush off my painting, but the lingering memory of her uneasiness sticks with me. 

She has made meat and potatoes; my favorite. I can smell it from the stairwell. As I approach our dinner table, I tentatively sit to rest. She waits for me to take the first bite, as always, her eyes lingering cautiously on my fork. I have no choice but to eat. 

I take a bite in silence. I then sit, and take a bite. 

I sit and bite. 

Sit. Bite. 

I forget to swallow. 

I sit, and swallow. 

She then takes my bare shoulder, and her eyes speak to mine in worry. I apologize, though I can’t quite remember what I’ve done. 

* * *

My love offers to take me to bed, and I accept. It’s been a long day, she says. I’ve been painting a lot; too lost in my thoughts, she says. I agree; my mind feels a bit fuzzy. I’m not sure why, but sleep must be the solution. 

At midnight, we lie to rest, tucked neatly under silky red covers. I speak to her goodnight, and my love tells me as well as she dims the lights. Laying on her bedside table lays her favorite ruby necklace; the one she wore to our dinner. 

Oh how I love that necklace.