Opening the door to the attic, she entered what was once an artist’s studio. Light from the rooftop windows revealed numerous unfinished paintings leaning against the walls. Discarded rags smeared with turpentine and a rainbow of colours lay on the floor. And standing proud, in the corner, a wooden easel housed a blank canvas.
“Locked himself in,” they’d told her. “Went insane.”
She found herself strangely drawn to a paintbrush protruding from a pot. Within seconds it was in her hand, pulling her towards the easel, before uncontrollably thrashing its angry strokes onto the canvas.
And she was lost.