Art Were Her Words

She never spoke. And when she did, no one would ever hear her. But she was used to that, being ignored. It held no mystery for her.

It was her art that made her so appreciated. Well, she called it appreciation, for she didn't know what else it could be, or even what appreciation was. She would give a humble smile and a pleasent nod, but not one word swept across her lips. No, Thank you's. No exaggerations. Just a nod and simple smile. People would become curious, but they never asked the woman to speak.

Days flew by that turned into months, which turned into years. Still, not one word.

A young scholarly lad meandered down the rough cobblestone road. He saw the woman painting, her hands fatigued, but strong. It was one of the most beautiful sights in the world, he thought.

He cautiously approached her and asked, "Did you paint that?" She nodded, but kept painting as he continued speaking.

"It's very pretty, miss. I'd like to ask me mum to buy one off you, if you don't mind."

The womans' eyes grew tense for a minute, then she looked at the small child, shaking her head.

"Miss, why not? Is it because you're sad? Angry?"

She froze. She couldn't understand how he could tell her inner feelings. Tears began to form, but she was always good at hiding her emotions.

"Miss," came the innocent voice again, "Who hurt you?"

"H-h-how... how did you....?", her broken voice rang out.

"It's your art, miss. The hue's. The contrast. The darkness. Someone hurt you. You didn't have to tell me. Your art said it for you.</i>"

She took a look at her painting, looking at if from a different perspective. She saw it, the way her sorrows came out. Her hurt, displayed for all to see.

Her yellow's violently slung on the tattered canvas, and how she hated the violent sun. Her blue's cascading off the frame, and how she feared the ocean so vast. Her green's creating an obscene image, and how it masked the illness inside her. The black blots, and how it took her back to ev'ry cold night without a home. But what was most obvious was the red's. The red's, and how it burned, seared at her soul. Like a fire. Like a bloodied broken heart. She collapsed. The small child rushed to her side. He knew. Knew enough. As he comforted her, he noticed a small tube of unopend paint in her hand.

"Miss, is this... Is this white?", he asked.

She looked through a watery guise as she looked into her hands and saw what she was missing the whole time.

"May I?", the lad asked placidly, his hand outstretched.

She craked a smile and spoke with the most strength she had ever had, "Yes, I think it's time."

And together, they used white, the hope for a new tomorrow, and created a new start.