I sat up in my bed, my restless sleep finally getting to me. I dropped my face into my hands, elbows propped on my knees. I rubbed my eyes slightly and then looked up. My room was barren for the most part. It had dark, hardwood flooring. My oak desk sat against the wall opposite of the bed, the black rolling chair pushed under it. I glanced sideways at the door. It was a big door. Nothing was on my big door. I smiled slightly. I had to change that.
          My eyes flicked to the walls. They were white. What you could see of them that was. Almost every inch was covered with frames containing various things that were precious to me. One wall contained a giant collage of photographs. It had taken countless rolls of film, but the final product was beautiful. It was a lighthouse on a cliff.
          On a past school trip, we had traveled to the beach. At that thought my eyes flicked to another wall. The photos in the furthest most corner contained the pictures from that trip. Some  of the countless people milling about in the water, a man who had bathed too long in the hot sun, and a poor woman who had no idea she was being buried in the sand. I grinned slightly to myself and looked back at the lighthouse.
          I had found that place by accident. I had been venturing further down the shoreline, hoping I could find something to capture with my camera. I found myself climbing a rock face. At the top, I looked around and there it was; the lighthouse sitting on the cliff off just a little ways. I tilted my head, trying to think of how to capture it. Finally, I decided on a collage. Different snippets of the lighthouse scene pieced together to make what I saw fit my wall.
          I sat up straight on my bed. I glanced at another wall. It was a mural. I had painted an archway of trees. It opened up into a small valley. In the distance was a waterfall. Its icy blue waters crashed down on rounded stones of grey. Off to the side was a deer drinking delicately. It was a beautiful scene. I had painted it on a whim. My mother had thought something was wrong with me. I didn’t come out of my room until I was finished. I never answered my calls. I only left my room when no one was home, so no one could see it until I finished.
          I turned on my bed, drawing my legs under me. The wall behind me was full of framed art pieces. I smiled slightly and reached out to touch one. It was of a single rose sitting on the black surface of a grand piano. The smile faded as I remembered when I painted that portrait.
           I had gone into our sitting room, hoping to speak to my father about my future plans. I wanted to go into art, but he wished for me to enter the medical field. I had sat down at the piano and ran my fingers of the smooth, yet worn, ivory keys. My father sat in his favorite chair, puffing lightly on a pipe while reading a book. I turned to him and opened my mouth to speak, but he held up his hand.
          “I know what you are going to speak of, my child. I know what you desire, what you wish.” He closed his book and set it aside. He put down his pipe and stood up. Walking over to me, he reached over to a nearby vase and plucked a freshly gathered rose from its contents. I frowned slightly.
          “Father...” I began but he once again stopped me.
          “Child,” He started, placing the rose upon the piano. “I want you to play a song for me. Could you do that please?” I simply nodded and looked back at the keys. I knew which song to play. It was his favorite song. Flexing my long, delicate fingers, I placed them on the keys and pressed down. Without a moment’s hesitation, my fingers swiftly raced across the keys, blurring slightly in my sight. They moved without command, knowing this song themselves. I stared hard at the rose in front of me, memorizing its every feature.
          “Child,” I heard my father, only he sounded sad. “That is beautiful. Beautiful.” His frail voice worried me, but I could not look away from the rose. The deep red petals held my attention. I longed to stop and look at my father, the worried frown on my face proving it.
          “Please, Daughter. I want you to be what you wish. I was wrong to ask you to be something you are not. Please, never allow someone to run your life as I have.” His voice was weaker yet. I continued to stare at the rose. I felt moisture on my cheek, only now did I notice I was crying.
          “I am only sorry that I am too late in realizing it now....” My father’s last words rang clear in my ears even today. I had stopped playing the piano and turned around to find that he was gone. I couldn’t understand why. I later found out that he had been suffering for so long. He had been slowly dying for years.
          I tore my eyes from the painting on my wall and looked around my room once more. The wandering ceased as my eyes fell upon the easel sitting beside my bed. There was a blank canvas sitting upon it. Well, blank aside from the black line running across it. I stared questionably at the stark white plane sitting there. The black line burned my eyes.
           I looked down; my eyes searching the floor to get rid that eerie feeling that black line gave me. What had it been? Fear? Loneliness? Death? I shook my head vigorously, shuffling through my thoughts once more. Nothing came to mind; nothing at all. I focused my gaze and frowned slightly as I reached down to open the case on the floor beside my bed.
          The smell of paint filled my senses as I scanned the rainbow I held within my grasp. My eyes fell on the lone black. I picked it up, holding it tightly in my hand as I grabbed a few brushes from their case. I stared blankly at both hands. What was I doing?
           I placed the paint and brushes aside and looked once more at the easel. I reached out, half standing, and pulled it towards me. I cringed slightly as it scuffed the floor. I stared at the canvas once more before reaching over and grabbing the paint and brushes.
          Never blinking, I opened the paint and inhaled deeply. I smiled slightly and glanced from the canvas to the paint and back again. Without a second thought, I grabbed one of the brushes and began working on the canvas.
          I never once looked fully at what I was doing. I just worked. That was how it always happened. I never planned my work. It came from somewhere within. It came from my very soul. My heart and soul poured out through my hand as I watched its painstaking movements. It never once hesitated though.
          It was as if my hand new exactly what my soul was thinking before my mind had time to comprehend the complexity of it. My eyes tried to catch up with the swift movements of my hand, but it was nearly impossible. They focused more, staring at the general area of where it was working.
          The minutes ticked by, slowly fading into hours. A faint light was filtering into my room. My eyes roamed from the canvas to the clock on my desk. It was nearly six in the morning. My eyes flicked back to the canvas. My hand flitted once more across before dropping onto my lap. I let out a sigh and stood up.
           Edging around the painting, I stooped and grabbed a black bag from beside my big simple door. I smiled slightly as I grabbed my doctor’s coat off of the desk chair. Opening the door, I glanced back at the canvas. I smiled slightly and walked out of the door, shutting it quietly behind me.