He never means to paint her. Never. But when he closes his eyes and lets his heart guide the brush on the paper it always forms her face, her clear features, her pale skin. And when he sees his ‘masterpiece’ he gets angry, so he throws the paint on it, but the runny red liquid is just water, so it just tints the page a light pink. He sighs, another canvas wasted, though it really isn’t wasted, but he still throws it in the fire, watching the flames destroy what could have been.

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