a mark and a breath

Written by: el

The suffocating smell of paint filled the air in the dingy studio with the windows tightly shut. A flickering light bulb cast a dim glow on the artist, her skin covered in dried, crusty paint like the canvases around her. Once, she had found joy in being as colorful as her creations, her skin a vivid tapestry of stories. Each splash of pigment was a masterpiece, a connection to her art.

But now, the vibrant colors had faded, washed out by the very life she once wished to immortalize in her works. The paint had dulled, flaking away, replaced by deeper and more painful marks — scars that no amount of bright yellows or oranges could cover. Ten cans empty of her brightest colors could not conceal the red, blue, and purpling marks, it was as if they only seemed to become more vivid despite her endless strokes and coats of paint.

The suffocating weight of her unspoken pain felt as overwhelming as each whiff of the noxious fumes of paint left her choking, crushing her lungs and leaving her gasping for breaths that she couldn’t take. With her mind as muddled as everything else around her, she wondered if it was better to stop struggling at all.

The single door in the room creaked open, light washed over the subdued walls, and bathed the artist in it. The air wafted through, clean and fresh, replacing the metallic scent that had permeated the walls.

She did not notice the little girl standing in the doorway, her figure shadowed by the light spilling from behind until the little girl walked up to her. The artist could not see her face, but she did not move away. In her hand was a paintbrush, clenched so tightly the tips of her fingers were turning white, a stark contrast to the inky black dripping from the hairs of the brush. She moved to touch the artist, causing the latter to flinch, eyes now shut tight. But the little girl was unfazed. The artist could feel something touching her, but it lacked the aggressiveness that she had grown used to. With a peek, she could see the gentle glide of the paintbrush across her skin.

The little girl had left a different, softer mark on the artist’s skin. And in the obstructed light, the artist squinted her eyes to look closely at it. A semicolon was drawn across her arm, and she could no longer see the bruising and burning marks there before.

She breathed. It was as if the clean air had finally reached her lungs, clearing out the crushing feeling that had settled there. Breathing came easily once again, and she found herself enjoying the feeling as the artist took in the symbol. She looked up, finally able to see the child’s face. She saw the reflection of her younger self — a self that had once painted with a gentle touch, a care for life, and boundless joy.

The child left as easily as she came, but the artist was unbothered. The mark she had left was more than a symbol; it was a promise by her younger self to her. It wasn’t over just yet. She still had so much life to paint and so much color to see. In the quiet studio, surrounded by the echoes of her past and the promise of her future, the artist took up her paintbrush once more