By Lucy, age 11, Luxembourg
A splatter of paint sunlight, and it was telling me something. The clash of colours might have seemed unflattering to another being, but the painting stood out from the others. The colours shone perfectly messy for me. It was a modern art piece, abstract. Streaks of rainbow covered the canvas, that was once upon a time boring and blank. I shake myself from my fantasies. I need to leave this museum. I have already spent all morning scoffing at the other modern art. I give one last glance to the painting and walk off, exiting the building. I walk down the street, long coat billowing behind me. My phone vibrates in my pocket. I take it out and look. She is calling me. She has the nerve to call me. I hang up with no mercy. She ruined my life, made me start over. With a new name and a new…..I need to stop the negative train of thoughts. I rush to my local coffee shop to order my favourite drink. Inside, I walk to the counter and look from my phone where I had been reading an article about the incident. They think they can track me down.
I gulp.
In front of me is my old neighbour. Oh no. He stares, eyes wide. They were not supposed to find me. I nearly fall over, stumbling out of the coffee shop. I can’t let him take any pictures. I do not look up, I hear someone shouting at me across the street. The neighbour is following me. He shouts, “IT’S THE WOMAN FROM THE BLOOMSDAY CASE!” he yells. People start to stare. No, not now. I do not want to start all over again. Not now. I cannot. I didn’t murder. I was forced. I have repeated that in my mind for many years now. I was forced. Even though the police believed me, I do not fully believe myself. Tears prick my eyes as people widen their eyes. They recognise me. How could the police let this happen?! I scurry like a rat into my apartment building and lock the door, because luckily I’m on the first floor. I hear people with cameras outside, shouting and yelling. “YOU DISGUST ME, YOU MONSTER!” I hear a woman scream. I start packing, tears streaming down my face. I did not kill my boyfriend. I aided because I was forced. But for some reason, I cannot wash away the guilt building in my stomach. The look on his face when he realised it was his beloved girlfriend; I could not wipe it from my memory. My suitcase is packed. By the time I go out, the crowd have ebbed away, the police’s doing. I enter the museum and rush toward the painting. Just to admire it one more time. The painting my murdered boyfriend painted.