A Work of Art

This was a piece written last year for my portfolio work, enjoy!

She put down her quill and looked at her work. There. It was done. Complete. Finished. She examined the parchment from both angles, leaning both this way and that, making sure it was as perfect as it ever could be. It was a work of art, her very own masterpiece.

She picked up her quill once more and signed her name at the bottom of the page. She loved the feel of the ink flowing onto the paper, the smoothness, almost as if the ink and the page wanted to become intertwined, two bodies emerging into one. And that she was part of them, slaving away, not finishing until she had completed the very last word.

A sense of relief washed over her. It had taken her so long to get to this point, to be able to say that she had finally done it. But now she could hardly bear look at it. What if she found a mistake? She couldn’t cross it out, she would have to start again…yes of course she would. A big black scribble could never be placed on the paper, an eyesore on the rest of her unique italic penmanship, writing a picture within itself across the page. Crossing out something could never be an option. She felt pinpricks of hot sweat across her body, just at the thought of finding a mistake.

Perhaps she would read it tomorrow. Yes, perhaps that was the best plan. After all, you need a break once in a while, right? She needed a fresh look at it, with a fresh eye. And she hadn’t left this room since she began.  She slid the paper gently across the dust ridden desk, making a track across the table, but more determined to move it as far away as possible to stop the urge of looking back over it only seconds after completion.

She combed her fingers through her hair; she had hardly noticed it fall around her shoulders. All that time ago, it had started as a tight oppressive bun, but had loosened itself the more frantically she wrote. As she combed it through now, small particles of dust drifted through the air, contrasting with her dark locks. It was as if she had become part of her work herself, her, the pen, and the paper, each never leaving the other, continuing to write and write and write until she could finally say she was finished.

She pushed her chair back from the desk, little puffs of dust swirling from under the legs. Her own legs were stiff from having sat down for so long, her dress now resembling trousers due to the crease which had formed down the middle. The dress had been deep purple in colour; now it was, too, snowy white.

As she rose to her feet, she felt her legs wobble underneath her, and she held on to the desk for support. Her head felt slightly dizzy but she shook it off, she knew she would be fine in a moment. She had never meant to stay so still, for so long. But she had never felt hungry, never felt the need to eat. It was if time had stood still. She couldn’t even believe that such a long period of time had passed and she had not noticed a thing.

Walking across the room, she walked over to the window, ingrained with dust and dirt. Outside the sun was bright, small wispy clouds being the only source of diversion from endless blue. From her little cottage stacked on top of the hill, she could see for miles, across moors, woodland and shimmering crystal lakes. The house had been her dream, the setting the building everything. But she had never in all this time once looked out of the window.

Gripping hold of the bolt, she pushed against it, groaning at the strain and the sheer pressure it finally took, until it finally released, and sent her almost flying out the window after it. The cool breeze filled the room instantaneously, pushing away the stuffiness of the thick musty air, and replacing it with what seemed to her the best air she had ever breathed, as she gulped it down, feeling the cool sensation all the way down to her chest and lungs.  A big cloud of dust picked up and swirled through the air. Hearing a rustle, she darted around to see her papers moving in the breeze. With a gasp of shock, she slammed shut the window once more and ran to where the papers still stood, still in order, just slightly slanted. She sighed in relief and straightened them, before checking five times they were all there, in the same order and that none had been damaged. She couldn’t bear to see her work suddenly destroyed, just when it was finished.

As she began to calm down, the rest of the room became apparent to her. The dust had layered the room over everything, like a thick woollen blanket. It reminded her of being eight years old, and waking up to see a foot of snow had fallen overnight, trying to work out where everything had seemingly vanished to underneath it. She could just make out the lopsided portrait of her mother hanging upon the back wall. A line could be made out on the adjacent wall, which she could only assume to be a bookshelf by being able to make out vaguely the thick volumes of Dickens and Austen and Defoe and Swift. A thick layer of dust attached itself other finger as she touched them fondly, the gold gilt peeping its way through. She remembered the tales of adventure and romance inside every one, making her smile to herself. If only her work could be amongst them, on someone else’s shelf.

She sat back in her desk chair, the only thing in the room which was dust free. Her sheets upon sheets of paper sat obediently at the edge of the table. She would look at it tomorrow. But for now, she just felt free, free of the writing she had been bound to for so long. She closed her eyes and suddenly felt as if she could sleep until eternity. It was over.

She saw in the corner of her eye a jug, nestled in a corner by the door, and felt a sudden urge to rush over to it. As she drew ever closer, she began to see it was filled with water, and inside that, a person she vaguely recognised as herself. Her skin looked tired and strained, whilst her normally permanently twinkling eyes had seemed to lose a hint of sparkle.

She touched the water with her finger. The cooling sensation soared through her finger, giving her a wave of pleasure. It was definitely clean water, she could tell that. Using all her strength, she picked up the jug and poured its contents into the basin below it upon the table. She placed the jug down again and took a deep breath before plunging her face within the bowl. She felt the ice cold water numb her face, but energise her at the same time, every pore in languorous ecstasy. As she came up for air, she felt more alive than she had done for such a long time.

This feeling lasted only a matter of minutes, before something in her brain turned on like a switch. She sat upright, ideas flowing through her mind once again. She took another piece of paper, picked up her quill once more, dabbed it in her last dredges of dwindling ink supply and began to write.