Finish the Painting,

The moonlight streamed through the gap in the closed curtains, filtering through the dirty glass and forming a circle on the nursery floor. Of course, it was no longer a nursery now. Although the faded patterns of Mother Goose wallpaper remained, the once light, spacious room was little more than a junk-yard, every spare gap piled high with old books, antiques and memories. In the corner, Richard Sibbenson lay curled up like a baby. His chest rattled as he inhaled, his body trembling even in sleep. 40 years, forty years had he lived alone in that one room, surfacing only once a week to buy small quantities of food from a local shop. The rest of the time, he was working in the corner, painting. His old, withered hand held the fine brush with a loving gentlness that was rarely seen in him otherwise. Or he had done, until his health had got the better of him and for days now he had been confined to his bed, curled up in a tight ball, like a disgraced child. Not that it mattered much to him anyway. He had spent over half of his life in one room, why not one bed? Tossing and turning, the ancient bed sagged under his not-so-heavy weight as he wavered on the brink of sleeping and wake. If there ever had been anyone to talk to, he was never have spoken to them about the following day, how scared he as to re-live it all again for yet another year. The fortieth year. He would never have allowed himself to be sentimental, show compassion about anything - other than his painting. Forty years ago that next day, Richard Sibbenson's life had fallen apart, everything that he'd lived for been taken away from him. Little Hannah Sibbonson, the apple of her Daddy's eye. She'd been ill, ill for a long time. It had broken her father's heart to see her lie on that same bed, her rosy cheeks turning deathly pale and her deep red hair thin and pale as the life slowly ebbed away from her. She'd always been able to smile though, Richard thought, half smiling although tears pricked at his eye-lids. Always. Every night when he'd put her to bed, he'd ask her to name one thing she'd like, one thing she wanted. And the answer was always the same: 'Do me a painting, Daddy. A nice one, a pretty one. Make a painting of me, and make me look grown up.' and then she'd tuck her hair behind her little ears, and whisper a good night. And he'd worked on that painting. Day and night, twenty four seven Richard had sketched and sketched, dabbed and dabbed with the brush. But during the end of his daughter's short life, he'd given up in a way. It was so sad, so heart-breaking to paint her the way she was, thin and weak. Try as he could, he couldn't picture the little girl she had once been, her healthy, happy face and sparkling eyes seemed blurred in his memory, as if looking at her through tearful eyes. 'Make me a painting,' She'd died the next day. September the 24th, early in the morning. He'd held her hand, his fingers tightly wrapped around hers, praying as hard as he could, long as he could that through some miracle, she'd be alright. That she'd go to sleep and simply wake up the next day, smiling. She didn't. 'You didn't make my painting, did you Daddy?' she'd said to him, her eyes wide. And he'd had to shake his head, and say No, he hadn't finished her painting. 'Why?' He'd given her no answer, no explanation. How do you explain to someone, your daughter, a child, that every time he picked up his brush, the same stabbing pain came back to him and he'd had to put it down again. She died shortly aftwerwards, inhaling her last breath of air, but never letting it go. Since that day, Richard had been convinced, so convinced, that maybe - just maybe if he'd finished the painting, maybe things may have turned out differently. Maybe Hannah might have woken up the next day, smiling, just like he'd thought she would. So he'd worked on the painting, day after day, night after night, never leaving his room. Desperately dabbing the age-old canvas with his tired brush, deftly manipulating the simple lines to form an image of the daughter he'd once held so dear. But her memory became hazier as the days went by, days, weeks, months.. forty years went by. And the painting was never finished. And now he too was confined to just his bed, wasting away like his daughter before him. Underneath his closed eyelids, another tear rolled down his old face as he sank into an uneasy sleep, his chest rising and falling as the sound of his shallow breathing filled the room. 'Silly Daddy,' a high voice, unmistakeably that of a child came floating in response. Light and sparkling, the most beautiful sound in the world, like music. But Richard Sibbenson was still asleep. He heard nothing. 'Silly Silly Daddy.' And in the darkness, the solid, unfazing image of a little girl emerged, her tiny face eclipsed by a sweep of aubern hair, her round, child's body wrapped in a long white dress, one hand clutching a battered toy bear, the other reaching out to touch the creases on her father's forehead. And he opened his eyes, blinking a little to clear the sleep away. 'Hannah?' his voice was heavy and rasping, choking. She giggled, and his face contorted into a smile - the kind of smile when you're so full of emotion, pain and laughter that you don't know what to do with yourself. 'Don't you remember me, Daddy?' the little girl's voice faltered, and she stepped back a little, upset. 'O.. Of course I do,' He sat up a little, his arms almost too thin and weak to support his frail body. She turned to face the corner, at the canvas propped up on an artist's board with the picture, the painting, of her own smiling face. It was almost finishsed, aside the background. The child's on face, Hannah's, face lit up with a smile that only the young can manage. 'Oh Daddy! Look at me!' although her lips were moving, the sound of her laughing voice sounded to Richard like it was coming from outside himself, drifting perhaps, through an open window on a lazy summers day. Hannah Sibbonson stood up to her full four feet, and beamed. 'You DID make me look grown up, didn't you Daddy?' Richard nodded, speechless. He wondered if five weeks of doing nothing but lie in bed had finally finished him off, if this was the death and he was facing it. 'Daddy?' 'I.. I suppose I did.' he whispered, and Hannah laughed. 'Is it finished?' 'No.. No, not yet.' 'Finish it Daddy,' she pleaded, her eyes dancing, smiling cheekily. She stepped foreward to touch his arm. 'Finish my painting Daddy, Please.' He felt nothing when he touched her, no soft hand on his, no warm fingers touching his own icy arm. But what he felt deep inside himself was enough, enough to change anyone. A rush of fondness, forgiving, determination and love. 'I will,' he promised, his eyes spilling over with more unshed tears as he looked up to meet her own green orbs. 'I will.' And as she smiled at him one last time, before turning away. 'Don't go!' he cried, propping himself up fully, 'Don't leave!' But he fell silent as his daughter's image vanished in the darkness, and he could have sworn he saw two feathery wings resting on his daughter's skinny frame.

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That next day, Richard got up out of his bed, and put on his slippers and robe. Whistling, he picked up his brush and his paint colours, and stared into the oil-paint eyes of his daughter's picture. 'Finish the painting Daddy,' she'd said, So he did.

um. I wrote it. It took up about half an hour of my time lol. So that was hardly life changing.

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