Portraits of Despair

My name is Deidre Kalda—strange, isn't it? Don't worry, I'm used to that flicker of confusion. My name, an enduring legacy, means 'Sorrowful Chills.' At the cusp of adulthood, at 19, I reside in Strasbourg, nestled in the heart of eastern France. I am a student of the arts, and my passion lies in the stroke of a brush on canvas. Some muse that my thoughts bleed into my art—that if only I shifted my focus from the macabre to the mundane, normalcy might reclaim me. They are mistaken, profoundly so. My works are not conjured from the void—they are reflections of reality, snapshots of existence, unflinchingly caught by my eye. Critics suggest a psychologist's guidance would serve me well, yet I dismiss such notions. The recital of calming mantras—'Breathe in, breathe out... relax your body, stabilize your mind'—seems nothing short of trivial. I am my own therapist, my solace found in the rhythms of painting. I lay claim to a sanctuary of sorts on the top floor of my friend's club—a personal retreat where I create, enveloped in solitude. Warning signs deter unwelcome intrusions, preserving this hallowed ground for myself—and occasionally Anne, who spells her name with an 'e,' not an 'a.' Ascending beyond the haze of alcohol and tobacco, I reach my refuge. Here, open to the sky, the fresh breeze carries whispers of inspiration. Anne's presence that day was as expected as her company, the insufferable Jackson—his aura unsettled me deeply. Her inquiry into my relentless drive to paint was met with a matter-of-fact response. I ascended, leaving her behind, and threw wide the door to my left. To my delight, the rain had christened the world anew, yet my canvases remained untouched, shielded from nature's tears. I flicked on the light, allowing the gentle strains of 'Engravings' to fill the space. A fresh canvas awaited, and soon I was lost in the song and the splendour of creation, tracing the outlines of a tragedy—a car, a girl, the onlookers of sorrow. Anne's voice, tinged with humour and alcohol, couldn't lure me from my craft. My brushstrokes were my companions for the night. Alone once again, I revelled in the catharsis of each line, each hue. The painting neared completion, yet a nagging sense of incompletion plagued me. The tableau was incomplete—the screaming woman, the child in hiding—both accounted for, yet someone, something, was absent. Was it a missing bystander? No animal lurked in my memories. The puzzle gnawed at me. A muttered curse nearby startled me—the presence of a man teetering on the brink, embittered by life and unseen burdens. Concealed in shadows, I watched him unleash his fury on an abandoned chair, his anguish palpable. But where had Anne vanished to? My concentration broken, I spilled one of my creations to the floor, drawing his attention. He shouted into the ether, and as I emerged from my hiding place, the melody of my solitude continued, undisturbed by the tumult. He saw me—just another mysterious figure in the night, part of the gallery of shadows and light I called my own.