Standing in a field of wildflowers, purples and pinks and yellows and oranges flourishing around her, so lush they might swallow her whole. The sky was clear, only a few clouds marring the pristine swirls of various shades of blue, a white farmhouse in the distance. The girl had on a plain white dress, and her blond curls were wild and unruly, as though she was shaking her head vigorously. She looked about nine or ten years old.
It was a standard image. Almost boring, even—a country girl picking flowers.
But her face.
Her face was a blur, as though the paint wasn’t quite dry and someone swiped a hand through her features. April wasn’t sure what it meant, but it made her feel something.
Something big.
“Holy shit,” April whispered, taking a step closer, nearly pressing her nose to the canvas. The textures were incredible, thebrushstrokes almost circular. The juxtaposition of the serene landscape with the girl right out of a horror story in the middle of it all…well, it was striking.
“Oh, god, I fell asleep.”
April yelped at the voice, clutching at her chest and whirling toward the sound in the back of the room. Daphne sat up from the love seat in the back corner, her hair a wild mess, and squinted into the sunlit room.
“Jesus,” April said.
“Nope, just me.” Daphne rubbed her face.
“Have you been here all night?”
Daphne stood up and stretched. “I think so? I don’t know. What time is it?”
“Nearly ten.”
“At night?”
April just glanced pointedly toward the sunlight streaming in through the windows.
“Right,” Daphne said, straightening the T-shirt she’d worn to bed the evening before.
“Is this yours?” April asked, motioning toward the painting.
Daphne froze, her mouth dropping open a little. She walked toward the front of the room, eyes never leaving the canvas. She stopped next to April, pressed her folded hands to her mouth.
“Is it?” April asked again.
Daphne nodded, gaze still locked on the blurry girl.
“It’s incredible,” April said.
“Really?” Daphne asked, dropping her hands.
“Are you serious?” April asked. “Do you see this thing?”
“I see it.” Daphne still stared at the painting as though for the first time.
“Is she you?” April asked.
Daphne sighed. “It hurts to look at her, so I think she might be.”
“What do you mean?” April asked.
Daphne shrugged, her eyes a little glassy. “She’s like a bruise that’s not quite healed. Or maybe it’s already healed, but you still remember that achy press.”
April stared at her. Of course, she knew art reflected human experience, pain, joy, everything. But somehow, Daphne’s explanation was like poetry.
“Is that what art is like for you?” Daphne asked.
