She was a visual artist, a poet who wrote innumerable
numbers of poems without using words. Cindy was a painter and a mayor of her
town. At the age of forty-three, she lived in a mansion all by herself. Cindy
never found it imperative to marry someone. Her paintings kept her company,
whereas she was busy in her campaigns too. Other than being an administrator,
Cindy owned a few restaurants along with a few shops of branded products.
Everybody knew her as the woman who would donate half of her money to the
charity, and half of it would be given to the organization that fought for the
immunity of women. Sometimes, Cindy would hold a fundraising event for selling
her paintings. People from all over the world would come to attend the occasion
and to buy her paintings as well. The reason why it was not because she was
famous and a successful personality, but because the pictures she painted were
alluring and bewitching. They were extraordinarily sui generis, and people
recurrently asked her where she got the interpretations from. Her reply would
always be, “you know how inspiration is. It comes as expeditiously as it goes
away. Whenever a drawing runs across my mind, I stain it using diverse colors.
That is how my canvas is made. I am overjoyed everyone adores them.”
The year 1975
A five-year-old girl ran on the farm field wearing a pink
colored frock. Her blonde hair shone in the bright sunlight, and a massive
smile was plastered on her face. She giggled and ran all around the meadows,
feeling bliss fill her heart. But that cheer suddenly turned into dismay as she
saw a shadow above her. Eyes filled with awe, she gazed at the person in front
of her. She was dragged by her arm into a small cottage. That little girl felt
a sharp pain on her right cheek
“I told you not to go out, right?” Screamed the man in
black.
“I know, I am sorry,” she whimpered.
She heard the sounds of the belt and cowered in dread
because she knew what would happen next. That little girl was not little
anymore when she was hit dozens of times with the leather belt on her bare
skin. It happened every day until she wasn’t the same anymore. Until her pain
turned her into something, she was not. Until the day, her grief turned her
into a monster—a monster who destroyed everything and everyone in her path.
Present:
The art exhibition was being held in a large banquet hall by
the sea. Men were dressed in tuxedos, and women were dressed in gowns looked
massively expensive. Cindy stood at the entrance of the lavish hallway,
smirking, greeting every guest. They congratulated her on her international
tenth fundraising event. Everyone was positive that the experience would turn
out to be a massive success, like every event of her ever conducted. The
function started with a music performance by one of the leading singers of the
country, followed by a violin performance by a group of talented teenagers.
Cindy was amazed at the actuality that every painting of her was sold. Then
came the last art, the one that held a lot of value and was the most expensive
of all. When the expertise was brought into view, the cameramen started
flashing and took as many pictures as they could. The crowd gasped and enjoyed
Cindy’s natural god-given talent. Cindy gazed at the painting with honor and
delight. It was a picture of a girl child with blonde hair in a field of
meadows smiling widely. Behind her was a shadow of a black person. Although it
was a typical painting, it held a lot of misery in it, a lot of heartaches, a
lot of anguish, and a lot of sorrow. The picture was sold at the bidding of one
billion dollars by a businessman from Taiwan. The event ended with a heartfelt
speech by Cindy.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, the only purpose of
holding this event was not to earn money for myself but for all the young
people out there who die of hunger. There are a million children who neither
have access to proper education, nor do they have access to clean water. As
human beings, we have to help each other in such critical times. And as a
mayor, who holds a lot of power in her hands, I must help not only the people
of my city but people all over the world too. I hope you all enjoyed the event.
And if you have any questions, you can proceed to ask,” Cindy smiled at the
crowd.
The mic was handed to a journalist in the group, “Ma’am, I
have a question.”
Cindy nodded
“These paintings that you paint, where do you get the
feeling from?”
Cindy chuckled. “As I have said in each interview of mine, I
get the inspiration to paint these paintings.”
“And I have heard each interview of your Ma’am. But why are
all your paintings so dark?”
“Art is supposed to be dark. It is never meant to be light.
It is supposed to make its viewers feel the cloud of the dark shadow.”
“Can you tell me the meaning behind the painting that was
sold at the highest rate tonight?” the journalist asked.
“It signifies a person’s fear. No matter how young or how
old we are in age, our fears are larger than us. And sometimes, they win,”
Cindy said. At that moment, she felt anger building up inside of her.
“That is enough for tonight,” she said with a smile and got
off the stage.
Cindy sat in her limousine and listened to the melodious
voice of Celine Dion while sipping on a glass of expensive wine. After a few
moments, she asked the driver to drop her off at an alley. He did as he was
told, and she got off the vehicle wearing a black cap and a black hoodie too.
She had changed her clothes in the limo. Thirty minutes had gone by, and Cindy
kept walking on the dark alleyway. She walked as she saw a person walking from
the other side of the street. It was the same journalist who had asked
questions from Cindy in the fundraising event. When he saw her, he waved his
hands.
“Hello, Ms. Cindy. What are you doing here? The event just
ended”
“Hello, young man. I am here to see you.” she smiled at the
journalist.
He looked confused.
Cindy stared at him for a few moments and said: “Do you want
to know why I paint such dark paintings?”
“No, Ma’am. It is quite alright. I got the answer I looked
for when I interviewed you.”
“You seemed persistent” Cindy replied
“Was I? I am sorry. It was not my intention to be strident
or pushy towards you.”
“But you did. You seemed to clout on knowing what my
inspiration was. And you know young man, I don’t like people who force me to
answer questions I don’t like.”Cindy took a slow step forward, staring at him
with pure hatred in her eyes.
“I must be going now. My wife must be waiting for me”, as
soon as he turned around, he heard Cindy say the words, “She is waiting for
you? Well, that is too bad.”
He felt a sharp stab at his back and fell to the floor.
Cindy glared at the sharp knife covered in blood in her hands and laughed
extensively. She felt her heart feel at ease. The enmity that boiled her from
the inside was now gone. She glanced at his dead body in disgust and packed it
in a black bag made of plastic. Cindy called her driver and asked for her car
to be delivered to her. When it was, she asked the driver to go back home,
taking a taxi or a cab, because she would be driving it alone. Cindy hid the
dead body in the backseat of her GMC and rode back to her house, listening to
the soft tunes of Jazz, humming along.
Parking her car in the garage, Cindy dragged the body all by
herself to the basement. There were no servants at this hour of the day. So it
was easy for her to get her work done. Cindy opened the door of the excavation
and turned the lights on. Under the substructure was another transparent door
that led to a room deep under the ground. She pulled the body all the way down
there and kept it along with all the other bodies. There were a million
different black bags. Cindy let out a laugh and closed the door behind her as
she left. Today had been a long day for her, as she felt her muscles tighten.
Cindy decided to take a warm bath. Turning on the tap for mild heated water,
she added a few drops of rose serum in the tub. Laying there in the bathtub,
Cindy could feel all her stresses wither away. She let out a sigh and drifted
off to sleep. Cindy was awakened with a notification on her phone. It was a
message from the secretary of foreign affairs. Ignoring the message, she got
out and dressed up in her nightgown. It was time to paint.
Cindy’s painting room was cozy and warm. The lights of her room were dim, and the wall was painted in the color of dark maroon. One side of the wall was empty. However, the other side of the wall was covered with pictures. Her paintings were gruesome, wholesome, and attractive too. But what made her paintings so fascinating was the certainty that they were based on real-life incidents. What Cindy told the citizens of the town was nothing but a white lie. The paintings painted by her were not from her imagination. She paints only the incidents that have happened to her. Cindy considered herself a true artist. She did not wait for inspiration to come. She went out and finished those who harmed her or caused her anger, grief, anguish, and pain. At the corner of the room was a painting of Cindy when she was ten years old, holding a knife, standing behind the man in black. He was the first man she had cut off from her life. The reason why was because he hurt her. Her own father, she had killed. Cindy found a way to cope with her guilt. The only way she did was by painting. And in art, she found her solace. In killing, she found her comfort. Cindy considered herself to be a true hero, because she finished off the toxic people from this earth, painted paintings and used that money to feed the underprivileged people of the community. She was born to be a hero for the lower class community. She was meant to be a painter. With a small smile playing on her lips, Cindy started to paint the portrait, the murder of a journalist. She was not always this way. The world had turned her into someone she loves to be. Cindy was not a monster. She was a person who genuinely loved her work, and she couldn’t imagine herself doing anything else. Cindy was delighted.
Biography:
Ayesha Shaikh was born and brought up in the country of
Pakistan. From her childhood to her youth, she had always been an ambitious
person, an outstanding student, and a humble human being who has contributed to
various occasions, activities, meetings, and collaborations for the benefit of
the society. She is an IWP Alumna USA and earned the title of an internationally
recognized writer from the USA And India. A lot of people aren't privileged
enough to do and achieve specific things, but some of them are. She never took
her opportunities for granted and worked hard to achieve astounding things in
life which makes her stand tall.
0 comments: