All the Colours

Eady sat in her studio, focusing on a small crack in the wall opposite. She felt as though she had painter's block if there was such a thing. Perhaps, if she had studied art theory, she would have found a convoluted way to explain how she was feeling and maybe even focused on a cure. Perhaps, if today wasn't the anniversary of her mother's murder, she would be more open to the shapes and colours that should be filling her mind.

Sighing, she got up and walked to the French doors, pushing them open into the very overgrown garden. Slipping her feet into sandals, Eady walked out into the afternoon sunshine and headed for the small potting shed. Inside, amongst the dust, cobwebs and spiders, she found a pair of slightly rusty shears and, avoiding a humungous huntsman, stepped into the light and began to prune and hack away at what she assumed were weeds. Colour began to burst forth as she cleared a pathway to the sun. An hour later, sweaty, dirty, arms aching from wielding the shears, she stopped and, gathering up a few stray flowers she had inadvertently clipped, went back indoors. Finding a vase at the back of a kitchen cupboard, Eady added water and dumped the flowers into it. Then, feeling guilty for prematurely ending their lives, she arranged them by colour. She recognised roses in various shades of pink but had no idea what anything else might be. It didn't matter.

Sipping a cool soda, Eady approached the huge, blank canvas propped against the studio's far wall. Studying the flowers, she began to mix colours, the colours of her mother as she remembered her when she had been well, when Eady was small. Vivid, warm yellows and oranges, delicate pinks, bright greens. By the time she was around eight and her Irish father had moved them away from the Persian community he found so stifling, the colours had begun to fade.

Eady began to paint. Her mother, Roxana, very slowly started to take shape on the canvas. She had been so very beautiful and alive before she disappeared into golden brown, her mind escaping the tyranny of her brutal husband. By the time Eady was twelve, Roxana was a shadow of her former self, an addict and yet another victim of domestic violence.

Closing her eyes, Eady conjured images of Roxana laughing, dancing, loving life. She painted all day, only taking toilet and water breaks. Food could wait. Finally, just before midnight, Eady yawned and stepped back to view her work. It was far from finished, but she was happy with the results so far. Roxana looked out from the canvas, huge, dark eyes expressive and warm. She was wearing an orange and pink dress and a simple hairband decorated with yellow flowers. She smiled, revealing the dimples in her cheeks. Roxana was in the middle of telling a story. She had been a wonderful storyteller and a poet. Her voice drifted from the painting. "Go to bed, little kitten, and don't forget to eat. I love you. More stories tomorrow."

Eady smiled and, leaving a small light on for Roxana, she did as she was told.