This chapter is one of my proudest works, and favorite chapters I've written for the novel so far.
one line from it:
Turning to my easel I set up a clean canvas and mix two little pools of acrylic - a cocoa brown bath and a baby pink one - so much more delicate than I can fathom - and I touch my brush to the canvas.
This is laughable.
The petals melt into themselves - too much water - collapsing faster than I can convince them there’s a reason to keep trying to be beautiful - each one perfectly defective from the first second of their conception-
There will be no fruit.
The tree is broken.
It’s dying.
And I don’t know how to fix it. How to save it -
So I leave it to keep weeping. Falling to pieces like blushing ashes falling from the top of the canvas to the base like the burning rain and embers after a wildfire-
And go to bed.