Inspired by my big buddy's fic which I'm sure u ALL have read. It's "Coin Laundry"! Except...um, I guess this is kinda more angsty and depressing and from Naomi's pov instead. Oh, and the twitter user hummer_kase, this one's ESPECIALLY for u.
Prologue
She painted fervently, furiously, as if the connection of canvas and brush was the only thing keeping her sane. At points she looked livid, other times near tears, and once in a while she would go into a calm trance, the brush moving quickly and easily over the once-white surface in front of her. And so it went for three hours straight, as she poured mind and matter and everything else she had onto that 36-by-38-inch area. By the time she threw the dirty brush to the ground, her hands had cramped up to the point of immobility, but this meant almost nothing to her. All that mattered was that she had finished.
Without another word, she set the canvas against the wall to dry and climbed into bed, impartial to the paint caked on her clothes and hair. A mere moment passed and she was leadened with sleep, not to wake for several more weeks.
My best friend in the whole world is in a coma.
No one really knows how it happened. All they know is that she had been painting before it—whatever "It" is—happened. They think it might have been some sort of undetectable poison or something, so I'm not allowed to enter her room until the police find substantial evidence. Which means I won't be able to see what she painted.
I know what you're thinking—what kind of friend am I? All I care about is some dumb painting? But that's not how it is. This would be the first painting she's done in over a year, when we grew together and grew apart and everything changed for the better or worse. For some odd reason, I feel like I have to see the it—that if I do, I'll be able to understand why she won't wake up. I feel like the picture's more important than fingerprints and DNA samples.
The painting will tell me everything I need to know.
Should I continue?