Black Petals

I hold the brush in my hand, eager to start painting. I ponder on what should be put on the canvas. I smile as I figure it out. My dear love. I think of him as I dip my brush into a small container of paint. Oh, how he fills me with joy. I stroke the color along the blank space. I think of him coming home to me every day. He will sit at the table across from me with his narrow eyes. He will eat my food and tell me what needs fixing. He tells me he only wants what's best for me. We go into the bedroom after dinner and he kisses my cheek. He used to kiss my lips, but he says the cheek is more sincere. Oh, how I miss his soft lips upon mine. I fall asleep to his phone's bright light on his face. He wakes earlier than I and goes to work extra early to make his boss proud. He even stays extra late. He says the woman at the front desk and him are good friends and hang out when the boss is away. He comes home smelling of her some days. She smells of lavender and vanilla. Once he comes home again he will tell me of the laughs they share in the office. I ask why he stays late if no one else would be at the office. He says the woman at the front desk stays with him. I dip my brush back into the container to get more paint. I ask why he would stay alone with her. His eyes get cold and annoyed. I apologize. He gets angry. I tell him I do not like him alone with her. He lays his hand on my cheek that he kisses in such a manner that it stings. I do not like it. I apologize again. The next day he would come home and we would not speak. I would admire his face from across the table as he takes a bite into the food I prepared him. He does not look satisfied. I do not speak. He asks me to get him something to drink. I get up and do as ordered. I hand him the bottle and our fingers touch ever so slightly for only a moment. It was so warm. It was so smooth and soft. I want to touch it again. Instead, I sit across the table and continue watching him. Oh, how much I love my husband. My hand shakes as I continue painting. I bend down to the ground to put my brush into another color. I paint the new color onto the old. He comes home angry one day. He paces and mutters things to himself. I ask what was wrong. He says nothing. I ask if it is the woman at the front desk. His silence tells me it is. I ask more questions. He has not spoken to her in a few days. He walks up to me and yells in my face. I do not move. I am not scared. He grabs my arm tightly. I do not make a sound of pain, no matter the amount I want to. He said he would never hurt me. Therefore, I am not hurt. He says he loves me. Therefore I will forever love him back. He lays his hand upon my cheek once again stinging my face. I walk out of the room. I walk out of the house. I get into our car. I drive. I get out of the car. I walk into a building. I lock the door behind me. I grab a paintbrush. I begin to paint. The painting continues. Only one more stroke until I am finished. I bend down to the pool of red color sticking to the hard floor. I ignore the body it is coming from. Her long black hair lies over her face, covering her terror. She still breaths. She is still alive. I smile at her, but she cannot see me. She cannot move nor speak. Her white shirt covers with the bright red I am using. It is the perfect color for my canvas. I am done. I back away. The canvas is painted black. On top of the black is the perfect shade of red lines. A tear trails down my face. Oh, how beautiful he is.