Paint The World

A blob of green paint met with the tip of my head, swirling within the roughened bristles of my brush, and overwhelmed my senses with the pungent smell. I was pulled away from the wooden painting palette before being pushed against the canvas before me. My stained-green strands brushed lightly against the canvas, dragging and dotting to add in more color to the scene. I brought emerald trees to life in the mystifying forest that my master had created. The paint smeared just as my master dictated, creating another world with my added help. My master's skilled hands guided me across the canvas, creating hundreds of leaves within thick bushels of trees. To think that just hours before the canvas was blank with no life was laughable, though true.

I was pulled away from the canvas after some time of being used for the bountiful amount of plants. I was sure that my work was finally done after hours of work, for nothing else need be added. One could imagine my surprise when my head was massaged clean under the flow of warm water to prepare myself for another color. I looked up at my master, silently asking her what she further planned to do with the beautiful painting she created. There was nothing more that needed to be done. The greens of the woods she created gave the canvas beautiful life. Then shining rays of the sun peeking through the trees made everything look heavenly. It was all too perfect for words. Adding just a single leaf would ruin the serenity and disrupt the senses. The plants would smell too heavily of wet paint and give no room for the viewer to smell the musky scent of the woods. Why, after such a long time of painting and listening to my professional advice, would my master suddenly refuse to listen to my pleas for her to stop? Had the paint fumes finally gone to her head?

My brush, cleaned off of any leftover green paint with lukewarm water, was being led towards the palette once more. I could smell the wood, but also smell more blobs of paint that were attempting to drown out the piney tang. Two new colors rested on the wood, waiting to be mixed into brand new shades by my bristles. I wanted nothing more than to stop the madness. My head was dipped into the red glob of paint almost painfully. My master dragged my head towards the bright orange, blending the two colors together to make a new, angry paint by the colors she previously used. I looked up to my master with a heavy heart. I could tell by the way she was handling me that she was fuming. I dared not to look at her face in fear of what would greet me. Why was she acting so irate? What was she about to do to this masterpiece? My question was soon answered when I slapped against the canvas with my new fiery color. In the middle of the creation was where I started before being dragged out in different directions, spreading the flames. I wanted to scream when I realized that my roughened bristles were now bringing destruction. I watched the canvas catch on fire with the heat of the red-orange paint my master mixed. Such destruction to the serene forest caused the unseen creatures of the artwork to scream. The sound rang through my ears hauntingly. I could almost smell the burning bark and leaves as I left the creation once again, the fiery wrath coming to an end.

I was cleaned off, the burning stream scalding my whole body and fingers rubbing harshly. The water blew out the fire physically, but I knew it would corrupt my mind forever. If things hadn't already been bad enough, my master flicked my brush against a smokey gray color and led me towards the scene once again. I was forced to create billowing smoke that rose from the painted flames and polluted the clear blue sky. I could smell that smoke I was creating and feel it burn my insides with hate. Could my master feel this pain like I could? Was she oblivious to the devastation and turmoil that she was creating not only on the canvas but also within her best tool? Could she possibly be blaming me for this terror that was brought onto the painted forest?

I watched the paint that stained the canvas dry and permanently scar the splendor. My master continued to use me to paint distraught animals as the flames dried. Horror filled my heart with acid. Young fauns in the background ran away from the consuming fire, their hooves clapping against the earth in haste to escape. Small woodland creatures like rabbits and squirrels begged the viewer to save them with their eyes while they fled from their burning homes. I felt myself die with each terrifying stroke, each look of fear I was obligated to create. The adoration I once held for my master disintegrated with each passing moment. Every time the tips of my brushes scratched the canvas once more, I begged to be rescued from the nightmare. I never wanted to create such darkness and pain within the peacefulness. All I've ever wanted to do as a tool for my master was paint the world with the exquisiteness and splendor she saw it as. I didn't ask to set fire to the world and watch it burn and curl to bow to the flames I created. Someone please save me from this monster I call my master, for I cannot and will not make any more of this heart-wrenching fire that brings forth such sickening rage.