With a slurping sound, the artist put another coat of paint over her faintly drawn words, which were beginning to cover the wall. It still wasn't dark enough, she thought, not even looking down as she dipped the brush again in the pie plate at her side and ran the brush over the red word above her head. It was beginning to run, the still-wet letters at the beginning, sending dark rivulets down the wall to stain the sheet on which she stood. She clicked her tongue against her teeth gently, mumbling about too much paint thinner absently, though there never was any to begin with.

A cloud shifted in the sky, and a ray of sunlight struck her writing through the open window. She smiled as the wet crimson glistened gently, encouragingly at her. Who cared what her parents would say about the ruined wall? Now this, this was art. This was poetry in motion. This was divine. They didn't understand art.

She turned for a moment to survey the room that held her. They had locked the door last night, after they had moved everything out. She was trapped, but no matter. They had left her paints, the easel, though no canvas, and several brushes. She wouldn't have stopped screaming unless they had, because those mellow colors understood her. As a pair of silvery eyes swept the ceiling, she felt a wave of dizziness overcome her, and she leaned back on the wall. The world spun, the white room that had become her world, dotted with color here and there and blessed by the golden light of the sun.

She giggled as the wooziness left her, and she stood again, only to let out a loud groan of dismay. A bit of the scarlet had rubbed off onto her smock, making the words dimmer, leaving only the first dried coat. Sighing, she dipped the brush back into the tin at her feet and brushed several more coats on top of the original framework of the letters, and then she realized that her tin was empty.

She sighed again. Life was full of little disappointments. At that thought, she giggled again, turning to search the floor. There it was. A butcher knife rested in the corner, the silver gleaming eagerly at her and already covered with a sheen of crimson. She dropped the brush, again clicking her tongue against her teeth in annoyance, trudging over to where the blade sat. Crouching, she chastised the blade like a parent would a child, and held it lovingly in her right hand. They were already trying to heal themselves, but that was no matter. They would learn.

Standing, she glanced at her unfinished work. Another deep one should be enough to finish. No need to waste a medium. A look at her sticky forearm told her she could probably just reopen one. No need to waste a medium, after all, she repeated in her head.

The sun disappeared behind another cloud as she bent over the tin on the sheet once more; the blade had already found its way to her wrist, resting there like a heavy decision. She pressed down and dragged it across the skin. The crimson began to spill out almost immediately, a steady, pulsing surge of red into the tin. Smiling brightly, she picked up the brush again and dipped it into the newly full pie plate, then ran over the words again and again while never stopping to stem the flow from under her skin.

Finally she had to lay down her brush. Moving back a few paces, she smiled, her silvery eyes half-lidded with sudden exhaustion, and as she admired her work, another wave of dizziness flooded her senses. She dropped to her knees, looking at her hands. When she fell facedown and shut her eyes, it was with a smile on her face.

And in a scarlet stain stark against its white background, the wall read, "Happy Birthday."

~~

Aright, so it sucks, but whatever. It's my birthday, I can write what I want to. Hope you guys had a good day, like I did ^-^