She stood there in the middle of the room and stared at the green wall. The rays of the afternoon sun sipped in through the large window on her right and cast shadows of the burglar proofing onto the green wall.
She looked out the window and stared at the branches and leaves as they swayed gently with the soft wind. She looked back at the wall and could still see them. She closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them. She could still see the little spots of blood on the wall. Their colour was completely faded out and concealed by the fresh green coat of paint but their memory stuck.
She sighed heavily and cringed her face at the sight of her work. Her shoulders sunk. Her back slouched slightly. Her arms lazily dangled at her sides with right hand, a paint brush still in it, propped up slightly by her elbow to avoid having the paint drip onto her feet and toes. She continued to hold onto it, even though she was done. It was dripping with paint; the paint brush that she used to erase the memories of her past, or at least had tried to.
The smell of the fresh paint had filled her nose and was now slowly starting to choke her, but she remained planted there, right in front of the green wall.
“Maybe green is a strange colour to paint a room,” she thought.
Her thoughts slipped quickly back to the moment when she and her boyfriend had first moved into this house. It had been her idea to repaint it and refinish it. To make it their own, she had said.
She had ran and skipped through the rooms like an elated little child, gleefully shouting all the new ideas she could think of to bring the place to life and make it homely.
“We can paint this room green,” she had said.
Her boyfriend had grunted, “Hhmm!!” That sound of disagreement that came straight through the nose like that of an angered bull. He had walked out of the room saying, “Green is a strange colour to paint a room.”
They went with white. He went with white. They had the whole house painted white. She had hated it. But wouldn’t say much to change his idea. She couldn’t.
Then it got so ugly, so fast.
He was no longer the man she had once loved. Her arms and face bore testament to what he had become. Her whole body did. Her heart and spirit bore it too.
“I cannot live with you any longer. We have to end this,” she had muttered beneath her breath the day she finally gathered the will and the strength.
It was meant to be; she had only hoped it would be, the very end of everything. Those words, her acclamation would mark the very end. He would affirm that they had drifted apart, that things were not working out anymore and would just walk away. He would finally pack his bags as he had always threatened he would and just leave. She had hoped it would have been that easy.
But on that fateful day it was like the beast had been reawakened, rubbed against in the very worst spot. Its eyes flamed. Its acid boiled. Then fire rose.
She had been hit here and hit there. A sharp fist, or was it a claw, landed on her cheekbones. It cut right through her skin. The next blow cut her lip. She had been short of breath. She had been flung onto a wall. The blood from her wounds had splattered across it, across the white wall.
“It never was pure,” she now thought to herself.
Now she stared at the freshly painted green wall, the spots where her blood had fallen had been painted over, covered and sealed. Three layers after and she could still see them, the tiny spots of her blood splattered across the wall. She stood there, her paint brush still in hand.
“I’ll nail some wall hangings over those spots,” she thought to herself.
She breathed in deeply, raised her chest, her chin and straightened her back. She exhaled.
Now relieved and yet still grieving.
So I managed to attend day two of the Writivism workshop. I couldn’t attend day one of the workshop because that day just turned into a disaster. There were a number of things that needed to be sorted out all at once and I was late.
One of the exercises we had for day two was creating a short story maximum of 600 words with the word “green” in the first line. I didn’t even get to hear the specifics of the instructions and what particular lessons had led to this particular exercise because I had rushed outside to pick up my phone; it was a very important phone call. (Sigh!)
So this story is what I thought up. I pieced it together in my mind and wrote it during the last five minutes of the allotted time for the exercise. I came home, exhausted and what not but felt like “Hey, I’ve got a little something here that I can work with” so I worked on it a little more, changed a few things here and there. I thought it would be a great idea to merge it with the AnyiPhotography and make it the third short story in the Photo-inspired fiction pieces I’m working on. I don’t know if the connection between the picture and the story makes sense to you, dear reader, but it sure does make sense to me.
Perhaps I just forced it to make sense. We’ll never know…LOL!!
Aaaaaaand that’s that; That Green Wall.
In other news, I missed out on the opportunity of getting myself a free copy of “London. Cape Town. Jo’burg” handed to me by Zukiswa Wanner herself all because I was too timid to raise my hand and answer a simple question. Darn it!! I must work on this “thing”.
Otherwise, God bless you all immensely.
As always, if you want to say I quick Hey! Hey! Sup!! or just have something to share, drop me a quick email firstname.lastname@example.org