The Artist's Love

The colours swam in front of his eyes. The artist was crying. Tears dropped like tiny prized crystals from his eyes down his soft pale cheeks.

He was alone again, abandoned in his studio painting his hurt. His love now belonged to another. He longed to touch her again, to feel her fire red hair slip through his fingers as they held each other.

He had loved her, painted her and had been her protector, for she had been his muse. He had wanted to marry her. But her father knew best and locked her away from the artist’s sight and touch. Oh, that milky pale skin that responded so well to his finger tips and the stroke of the paintbrush down her spine. He yearned to touch her again, but she did not belong to him anymore.

His sadness drove him to paint, to paint the most beautiful masterpiece he would ever create. The colours so vivid to his pain. He painted the one thing he loved more than life itself, his one true love.

His true love had fire red hair, piercing green eyes and the most precious skin in the whole of the world. Her curves were perfect, her breasts firm and full. He had laughed with her, dreamed with her and thought he had a future with her.

He finishes finally after long days of hard work. He stands back, his labour complete and sighs, sighs out of pain and admiration for this great work. He writes a note, procures a small vial from the cupboard, sits in an old rocking chair in front of the picture and stares at the most beautiful woman in the world. He drinks the vial and smiles in relief as his hurt, love and betrayal is over as he fades to nothing.

A few days after, the beautiful woman accepts her gift from the artist. The greatest
portrait ever done of her. She gives it to her servant and forgets about it until it
appeared on the wall. She did not appreciate the magnificence of it or the love that
had gone into every stroke and pick of colour. To her, it was a painting just like any
other, just like the artist was only a lover like all the other lovers.