She was uncontrollable, breaking things around and cutting herself. He had suffered this silently for several nights. Then, peace prevailed, and she was the best companion he ever had. Together, they would create. She wrote poetry, while he painted on a canvas.
He arranged for the morning coffee to be served in the courtyard. Soon, it would be winter, and the sub-zero temperatures would not allow this luxury. The notebook and pen were on the table. His easel and brushes were all set up.
“Let me paint a portrait of you today. See what the beautiful day and your own image inspires in you.”
“Paint MY portrait? Can’t you see green blood spattered amongst the leaves? I am sure there is something horrendous buried beneath it.”
The terror in her limpid eyes was genuine, and evoked his sympathy. It was the onset of another manic phase of her bipolar disorder.