Greens, blues, yellows, magentas. It was all there, a mathematical code of colour. The way the brushstrokes had lashed out as if in anger, furious at some imaginary place or person. How the chilling whites and blues could set you shivering, if only for a moment. The silhouette of the young girl framed the window; always smiling, never laughing, persistently living. The icy smile that traced her lips, the marble of her eyes, an ecstasy that screamed for help. Yet, from the window whence she stood, only warmth emanated. The tenderness, love and affection of the world welcomed her. But embrace it she did not, she could not, and she would not.
Old-fashioned and striking was the view from that undersized, forlorn window. A porthole that would unlock so many secrets. Secrets about the earth and secrets about her.
Snowflakes glistened cheekily at the sun, as its rays threatened to melt their home. In the distance, the steeple of St Agnes’ church rose cleanly out of the ground; a needle piercing the sky. Charred and black, scarring the heavens. This was my favourite painting. ‘Girl By The Window,’ by Sophie Fischer. An image that not only reflected beauty, but an image that mirrored me, my existence. My so called ‘life’ as it were. My name is Marianne Ashworth and this, is my story.
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