Author's Note: So I lied. I haven't lost interest in Rurouni Kenshin. I thought my next story would be in another anime. I was clearly wrong. Hopefully, you find this fic interesting, as it is different from what I usually write. I'm just trying my hand at different genres, and if no one likes this, please tell me so. Giving me your input will help me improve as an author—and help me decide whether this will be continued (and this probably won't be). Thanks!

Disclaimer: I think I have read a book about magical paintbrushes somewhere, so...if anyone knows a book that sounds horribly like this fic, please tell me! I don't own Rurouni Kenshin either!


My Secret Insanity
Chapter 1

"I saw it there, clutched right in your tiny fist. I swear! That's how a found you, my baby, my darling Misao. You weren't crying. I saw your little curious eyes looking up at me, and I knew it then. You were special. Why? Because clutched right in your fist was a paintbrush. I tried to remove it, and finally, you cried. I have this funny feeling that you were born with it. Don't laugh! Why else would you care so much about it? Why else would a little baby cry for something it had no use for?"

My mother always held this romantic vision that I was to be a great artist—an artist born with a paintbrush in her hand. She died soon after telling me this—after telling me that she wasn't my real mother, but instead, an abandoned, unwanted child left on a stranger's doorstep (and all that cliché stuff).

She left me here, to cope with this world, while she went off to a better one. They say it was suicide. No note. She gave no reason—not even a single word of apology.

If I were truly special, could she bear to leave me behind? Would she? What am I to her, if she couldn't bear to spend another day in life with me?

I now live with my grandfather—people call him Okina. He is kind to me, and provides me with everything I could possibly need. But it still feels different. I spend my time alone in my room most of the time, and I...paint.

It is true that I have had this paintbrush since I can remember. Whether I was born with it clutched in my hands is highly unlikely—the very idea probably even seems a bit corny. But what she said to me made me wonder.

Mother let me take up painting since I was old enough to know not to paint on things other than canvas. It seemed to her a very logical thing to allow me to do.

Anyways, I am skilled in creating highly accurate and life-like images. However, anything abstract is beyond me. Abstract art—though some say that it holds a higher reality—holds no reality for me. In other words, abstract art is the way the artist sees the world—so when you see a piece of Picasso's paintings, for example, you're seeing the world through his eyes.

I see things as they are. I don't see bright orange faces or triangle people. Perhaps, you could argue that Picasso really saw bright orange faces and triangle people, and maybe he believed that the world was truly like that. And, perhaps, my art really doesn't look real to you. But they look real to me. The reason? That is something that no human will ever know.

Why do we see the world differently? I find it so mysterious—perhaps even more mysterious than my mother's suicide.


I met him for the first time in my life shortly after my mother's death. I was sitting at the easel, hoping to paint away my anger with my special paintbrush—and that was when he was born. It was as if...as if I wasn't controlling my paint brush; it—he—just ...came into existence. I know, I know. It sounds cliché again, doesn't it? But that's truly how it feels when you create something that seems—that is—alive.

That's how it feels every time I paint.

Don't get me wrong. I don't mean creating in the sense that I made him—he created himself, spawned by my anger and by my love.

There is one thing you should know about me before I continue on. Everything that I paint is real—real in a sense that you may never experience. Each piece I paint is of this alternate universe—the same place that Picasso, Van Gogh, Monet, and all artists try to depict, I believe. Perhaps that's 'the deeper meaning' in their art. I wonder what Van Gogh saw in his starry skies and dead sunflowers?

That world is as—or even more—diverse than our world. There is no limit to what species, land, or objects lay within its boundaries. And the most amazing thing is that...I never created any of it. I just knew.

However, no objects can be removed from this world, nor can its inhabitants enter. But somehow, I am able to interact with them. I visit it every time I paint.

I vaguely remember telling my mother about this when I was small. She wouldn't believe me. Ever since then, our relationship had changed. I'm surprised that I didn't notice it then—but I notice it now. She would gaze worriedly at me when she thought I wasn't watching. What had I done to cause her to worry? What had I done?

Even now I do not understand. But I digress. I fell in love with him, because I had poured all my love—all my passion—into him.

He comforted me with his icy firmness and control. His name? Aoshi. It evokes joy, love, and sadness in me every time I think about it—joy because of my love, love because of my sadness, and sadness because of my pain.

It always comes back to pain, no matter what the situation is. Why is that? I did not name him—he just is Aoshi. I don't even know how I knew that. But he is always there, waiting for me when I need him. That's more than I can say for my mother.


Author's Note: So now that I look back on this, it seems to be total, utter crap. Oh well. If you agree with me, do tell me! I have no experience in painting, nor do I know much about abstract art. I just guessed. :o) Anywho, this most like won't be finished/continued unless a lot of people like it (and if not, I will remove it). So make sure you tell me what you think! Thanks (and review)!