Elodie pulled into her parking space later that same night, hearing the styrofoam crunch of the dry snow beneath the tires of the car. Damn, she hated winter—snow wasn't common for her town to get, but this winter had been unusually wet and cold. She gathered up the few small groceries in their useless, thin plastic bags and slung her purse over her shoulder, then climbed the three flights of outside stairs to the only apartment in town that she—the brilliant starving artiste—could afford. At this point, she was much more starving than brilliant. She'd already realized that the cold hard fact about being a painter was that you had to die in order to be appreciated, and despite the fact that she was largely alone in this world, she wasn't in any particular hurry to leave it.
She plunked her keys, purse, and the groceries—which consisted more of Ramen soup than anything else—on the countertop of her galley kitchen, then flipped on the ceiling light that illuminated her small apartment, and all of her 'children'.
That was how she thought of her paintings; all of them. They were like the children she'd never had. Probably never would have. She stuck to those things she loved—the ocean and red flowers—as much as possible, but occasionally indulged in a portrait or two. The canvases were lined up around the perimeter of the cramped apartment, like soldiers leaning against a wall for a moment of R and R in the midst of battle.
Elodie couldn't have picked a favorite amongst the non-portraits if she had to. She loved them all equally—she and the sea were partners, and always had been. Her landscape visions were played out in loving brushstrokes that were incredibly detailed, and every time she looked at them, they magically transported her to the sea. They were so realistic she could swear she should be smelling sea air inside her apartment. Luckily, the subject of her fascination was less than fifteen miles away, and she often spent her time—when she wasn't trudging through her waitress job—sitting on a dune, letting the ocean absorb her, letting it paint itself through her hands.
She never felt as much at peace as she did when she was painting on the beach. Everything else—every worry, every dunning phone call, every pang of loss or regret—escaped her soul, and she was left open and vulnerable but safe and sound in the arms of Mother Ocean.
Her other favorite subject, red flowers, or roses in particular—were a hang over from her daddy, who worked three jobs to keep his family fed, but on those rare days off, spent his time growing roses in the back yard. Elodie never could get over their stark beauty, so she strived to reproduce it, never quite managing to match the images in her mind.
She sat down on the beat up old couch—which she also spent many a night on, since it seemed to make her feel less lonely than sleeping alone in her bed—and flipped on the TV, but her eye was already caught by the canvasses that were in front of her. Two portraits; one of April, and one of Clay. They were bigger than any of the others. One was still on the easel because she couldn't resist tinkering with it, although it had been finished long ago. They were both done from memory, one a tribute and the other... the other a sad testimonial to what might have been—to what still lived inside her, and always would.
They were her best works, and could never, would never, be seen by anyone.
The portrait of her sister April was perfection itself—just as she had been. Familiar tears welled as Elodie stared into her sister's clear blue eyes. She'd gotten the curl of April's almost white blonde hair just right, and the fairy like, ethereal quality of her expression shone through so clearly that it was almost eerie. It was something she'd had to do—a compulsion she couldn't deny, and she'd painted it six months after her sister had died, painting for nearly a week straight, barely stopping for food or sleep. When it was done, she had collapsed into a heap on the couch, much as she had this evening, just staring at it as if it held the key to her salvation. It was a masterpiece, and it would never see the light of day.