Who am I?
The door creaked like a screeching woman as I entered the room; it was almost in complete darkness. I took my hand off the handle and shook it as I felt the chipped paint stick to my hands. I was suddenly hit by a stench of decay and damp, so much so that my eyes began to tingle. When was the last time someone entered this room? As I slunk further into the room I saw that the only light creeping in was from the window at the other end. Although a thin curtain was drawn, it is what first drew my attention to this dark and silent room. It was the light that was slithering in through the gaps and holes and sprinkling colour on to the objects that resided within it.
I walked edged up to the window perfectly aware that the echo of my footsteps was resonating in the silence. It was as if the echo of each step was bouncing off the walls only to make me nervous and make my presence ominous. I felt like I was intruding something that was private, something almost sacred. My walk to the window felt like a long one and as I moved closer I could see that curtain was thin and navy blue. It was worn out like it not been cleaned or changed in years. I slowly grabbed the edge of the curtain to move it aside only to discover something crumbling within my fingers. Now that the curtain was open I could closely inspect what this substance was against the light emanating from the window. I moved my hand closer to my eyes squinting only to realise that it was white paint that had dried over the years. I shook my hand again slightly appalled at how unkempt this place was. I continued to shake and wipe my hand but found myself stopping in my tracks only to stare out of the window. I moved closer and peered out to be completely in awe of the night sky, it was beautiful. It was like I was looking at a piece of art. If I looked carefully at the starry sky I could picture the image and the detail. I continued to stare and I could really picture the dark blue and navy colours blended in with the white brushstrokes. What would be a lonely and dark room was brightened by stars shining in the dark navy sky. It was as if a painter had scattered specs of bright yellow colour into the darkness.
I struggled to tear away from the window but willed myself to do so. I turned to the right staring at a small desk that seemed to have been shoved into the corner. At this moment I felt a mixture of joy and sadness, not even realising that I was running the tip of my index finger absentmindedly over the desk. It was time to leave but as I turned to walk away there was loud noise just behind me. My heart stopped as I quickly turned to look at what had made such a shattering noise. It echoed in the still room. I bent down, cursing under my breath, to pick up what was a pot of paint brushes. They were all used and laced with a mixture of dry colours. On the tip of the brush it said PT, his art supplies from Paris of course. And with this I sat on the floor deep in thought. Would he have imagined, having spent so much time struggling, spending time alone dealing with his inner turmoil, that he would in this room create a masterpiece. Not just this but so many more. If he were here, standing in front of me, would he have believed that he would one day be, known all over the world?