(I wrote this for an English class and I actually like this one so here ya go~)

My story begins the moment his brush touches the canvas and the first splash of navy blue marks the page. I am to be a beautiful thing, a masterpiece. The more paint that is added on, the more character I am given and the closer to completion I become. For hours, I am the focus of his eyes, the only thing he sees. The brush strokes flow freely along the blank space, filling it with color and life.

I begin to take form, if only a little. He still has much planned for me, I know, and I await to see, as he does, what those plans create. He is careful in his work, every line and every curve thought out beforehand and I am proud to have his steady hands to bring me to life. It is not often that such a talent is shown.

But now he stops. He is tired. I don't mind when he puts his brush aside and walks away from the canvas. For such a brilliant and creative mind must rest. I am in no rush and neither is he. We will both wait to see what beauty I become.

My paint dries some, but it is not long that he is away from me. He will not sleep until I am complete. Maybe there is a sense of urgency here, but not anything I believe is to be worried over. He will not rush and he will not falter. I am in good hands.

The canvas becomes thoroughly covered. The paint is layered perfectly and I see that he smiles. He is happy, he is proud, he is satisfied with his work. I feel the same. My image is complete now and it is beautiful, the colors complimenting each other as they run in lines down the sheet. It is indeed a masterpiece and I am overjoyed.

But there. What is that he holds? What is that he brings up to place beside me on the stand? I am instantly disheartened. For there is another piece, the exact same as me, but this one is real. I am but a copy, a worthless rip-off. A forged imitation of beauty, not beauty itself. I am ashamed. I am not unique. Why was I even created? What is my purpose?

It is this other painting that is his real focus. All I am to him is a means to an end, a tool to use for his own plot.

I am taken somewhere far away from that quiet, peaceful room, and then I am put on a wall in a place with many other beautiful paintings. These are real as well. I am not. I do not understand. Why am I here among these rare, magnificent things? I do not belong anywhere like this.

But then there are people all around, all looking at me and pointing. They are smiling. They are happy. But why? I am not what they think I am, that is why. They believe me to be another beautiful thing in their collection and for the first time, I think that maybe I am special. Maybe I, too, am something to be admired.

I see him as well. He is smiling. He is proud. But there is mischief in his eyes and I know he is the only one. He is the only one who knows of my true origin, and suddenly, I am happy as well. I am proud.

I see now why he created me with such care and such focus. I am his special thing, meant for this destiny in this place. I see now that he wanted this all along. Now it is me hanging on the wall in place of that other. And no one is the wiser because of him. He made sure I had a purpose, and wherever that other painting is, I know it can never be hung in my place. This is where I belong now.

I am beautiful. And I am where I belong.