The woman’s white visage clashed with the black hair fanning her face, and was shrouded by a surreal influx of red, magenta, and burgundy—the ambiance appeared to consume her. Her face was projected away from view, as if she were hiding herself from the public eye.
The portrait haunted him, and made him feel shame, yet he kept it on his bedside table to remind him. It was the first painting he had ever published, on the cover of her book and a testimony to the purgatory she had penned in the pages of her novel, which he had inadvertently caused her to experience again.
He knew not the melancholy story that bled through every typed alphabet and each deliberate chapter. But he knew, from knowing her, that she had been hurt before, and if he had had the courage to read the book, he would have found out why. He admired her bravery, but also envied it because he could not amass enough guts on his own. She faced her demons and wrote about her experiences as a sort of penance, a release from the ghosts of her past. And, she had been brave enough to strip her heart naked at the risk of him breaking it.
Where it all began, how it began…he could only trace it back to the day she walked into his shop. She had not tried to win him over with clichéd paraphrases like every other customer who wanted to get the best deal, but instead she had him strung even before she breathed a word.
Her semi-charming aura, emphasized by the defensive glint in her eyes, yielded her upset beauty, which aroused a myriad of desires in him. The desire to stare at her even from a distance, the desire to hear the sound of her voice, the desire to know her…the desire to have her.
But with desire, comes loyalty, especially if he wanted to keep a woman like her. She was independent, had her own ideals, made a commitment to honor and expected the same respect in return. But her weakness was that she had a binding heart. For a man who had groveled in his bat cave for far too long, it should have given him the strength to open up, but he still kept the skeletons under his bed.
More dose of prose
The portrait haunted him, and made him feel shame, yet he kept it on his bedside table to remind him. It was the first painting he had ever published, on the cover of her book and a testimony to the purgatory she had penned in the pages of her novel, which he had inadvertently caused her to experience again.
He knew not the melancholy story that bled through every typed alphabet and each deliberate chapter. But he knew, from knowing her, that she had been hurt before, and if he had had the courage to read the book, he would have found out why. He admired her bravery, but also envied it because he could not amass enough guts on his own. She faced her demons and wrote about her experiences as a sort of penance, a release from the ghosts of her past. And, she had been brave enough to strip her heart naked at the risk of him breaking it.
Where it all began, how it began…he could only trace it back to the day she walked into his shop. She had not tried to win him over with clichéd paraphrases like every other customer who wanted to get the best deal, but instead she had him strung even before she breathed a word.
Her semi-charming aura, emphasized by the defensive glint in her eyes, yielded her upset beauty, which aroused a myriad of desires in him. The desire to stare at her even from a distance, the desire to hear the sound of her voice, the desire to know her…the desire to have her.
But with desire, comes loyalty, especially if he wanted to keep a woman like her. She was independent, had her own ideals, made a commitment to honor and expected the same respect in return. But her weakness was that she had a binding heart. For a man who had groveled in his bat cave for far too long, it should have given him the strength to open up, but he still kept the skeletons under his bed.
