She appears in my dreams. My nightmares too, and sometimes I even see her where there isn’t anyone at all. I couldn’t tell anyone, that was the worst part. What would they do when they found out I was crazy? Would I be locked up with rats and the sickly smell of sewage waste?

Momma told me that’s where my crazy cousin went. I couldn’t be locked away, no matter what. To contain what was left of my sanity, I took up painting. So a year and a half later, I sat in the studio, still perfecting details on the one thing I could paint well. Her.

I was in the studio, resisting the urge to throw a solid punch at the canvas. All that time painting the woman who would always haunt me, and I still couldn’t get the nose right.

Ella walks in, her apron splattered with dry paint. “Hey, someone is here for you.” She disappears from the doorway, and a woman walks in.

I almost drop my palette in shock. It’s her. She was here, neither in a dream, nor hallucination. She was real flesh and blood standing in front of me. The closer I looked, I realized that it wasn’t the right person. She was almost the same as the old lady haunting me, but her hair was a lighter shade of brown, and she was younger, with less wrinkles. She didn’t look like a raisin as much as the old lady did.

“Hello, can I help you?” I ask shakily. Even if it wasn’t the same person, she still freaked me out. It was her eyes. They were similar to the old lady’s, a blue so pale they almost looked white.

“Yes, I came to ask if you could paint a picture of my mother. She died about a year and a half ago.” She reaches into her purse to grab a photo. When she shows it to me, my heart skips a beat. This is the old lady’s daughter, and I could tell there was something more that she wanted from me.

The atelier smells of oil and fumes, and specks of paint coat every wooden surface. Paintings of purple hued dragons and lush forests hang on the chipped walls, each baring their own price tag. All except the paintings under the white covers.

My hands move in delicate circles, occasionally looking over at the young woman across me as I trace her onto the canvas. Her eyes, heavy with makeup, convey a sense of longing, and she wears only a silk wrap adorned with pearls. Most often these commissions are sought by ladies in search of suitors. They place the paintings above the fireplace, hoping to catch the eye of an admirer drawn to their pretty eyes or charming legs.

Sometimes, when these women grow desperate enough, they offer to gift me a portrait of my own. "You're young enough," they say, as if they're debating whether a local artist would suffice. I never accept, though. Not when I can't seem to capture their likeness on a canvas correctly.

The roundness of the girl's face and the slightness of her brows don't transfer onto the canvas. Instead, my hands conjure a hollow face, a girl with blue-green eyes, a slightly smaller nose, and larger teeth. It's not her at all.

“May I see it?” The red headed girl asks, unmoving.

I'm at a loss for words, uncertain of what to tell her. In truth, I don't know what I expected. It’s not as though I’ve painted a face correctly in weeks.

“Lady Ophelia” I say, my words struggling to form. “My sincerest apologies. Perhaps we can finish our work another day?”

Ophelia's lips form a disappointed frown. "You've been saying that for weeks," she complains. "You haven't finished anything! Not anything at all!"

Internally, I sigh. "Yes," I concede, handing her the dress she arrived in. "If you could grant me just one more day to resolve these issues."

Ophelia sticks her nose up in the air, annoyance evident in her stare.

“It better be worth the wait” she sneers.

“Of course.”

I accompany her to the door and shut it tight, keeping out the falling snow.

I've grown accustomed to these fits of frustration, weeks when I can't seem to paint anyone but her. My studio is strewn with dozens of canvases of varying sizes, each one cut and painted over. I can't bear to see her face—her beautiful, haunting face.

I throw the paint brush to the side, letting my limbs go limp on the divan.

Then, there’s a knock.

“Ophelia, I promise I’ll finish it soon” I say, one long hand over my face and the other dismissing her with a wave.

“Pardon me” an unfamiliar voice says.

I swiftly get up, my gaze fixed on the door, and all color drains from my face.

There she stands. Her eyes like the ocean, stare terrifyingly familiar. I hate her, though I don’t know her. Hate her for appearing in my most frequent nightmares and fantasy’s. Hate her for the way my heart yearn to know her.

“Can I assist you?” I say, trying to keep my face indifferent.

Her brows rise inquisitively, unaware of whats on the canvas. “You can” she says matter of factly.

The girl takes out wrinkled paper, revealing a poorly done drawing of…me?

“Who in the heavens are you?” She demands to know. “And why can’t I get you out of my head?”

They call me eccentric. They think me mad! They say she’s not real. That she’s my mother, sister, aunt, lost lover. Alas! The face that haunts my dreams. The face that will bring death! How many times have I painted her? Her portraits pepper my studio. I could fill galleries! I have seen her! I have seen her power! The hour of our doom- what’s this now? Footsteps? Who’s there? If that idiot boy of mine… You.. Foul maiden. From my dreams. No! It’s the end of days!

I've been drawing the same face since I was a child. A raven-haired woman too tall to guess. She often crowds the paper, bent over like she didn't quite anticipate her inability to fit. And she's always crying. Never the same way. crying, sobbing, weeping, wimpering. Some sad, some angry, some filled with relief. But she's always crying. She changed as I did. When I broke my arm falling off the swings, she showed up bruised and bloodied. When I got into the arts program of my dreams, she clutched a diploma to her chest. As the drawings progressed, she began to shrink. She had started with features too elongated, jagged edges that faded into the blank page left behind her. But as I aged, as my art solidified, she began to whither and become more fragile. She began to sit more than stand. By my second year of college, she used a wheelchair. I accepted this gradient into my art. In college, after long days of rigorous lessons on the proper forms, drawing her became my solace. I still knew nothing about her. But I could draw her in my sleep. (And I did, several times, to the annoyance of the landlord who's wall I ruined.) I finished college and started a studio in the city. After much debate, my friend convinced me to name it "the Sobbing Woman" after the works that had gained me popularity. (thanks to a viral video she made of the drawing-on-the-wall incident.) So there I was. Fresh out of college. Ready to take on the art world and create a name for myself. But the question of the Sobbing Woman's identity still haunted me. I stayed up at night, drawing her face, trying to find recognition amongst the creases. I searched Google to no avail. The question would have to wait, I decided, as my life was swept into a world of exhibits and networking. Until one brisk November morning sitting in my studio. She wasn't crying, but I knew it was her. She had the same wheelchair I had drawn for years, and a knit blanket draped over her legs that I remembered sketching last winter. Her hair was tucked back into a loose braid, her hands worn by time and trial. She met my astonished gaze from across the studio. Forgotten watercolors crashed to the floor as I saw her over the top of my canvas. She smiled softly, like she had expected this. When she spoke, her voice reminded me of wind through the branches of my childhood tree. Scratching and quiet, but in a way that felt like home. I had thousands of questions swirling in my mind. "Who are you?" "Why do I always draw you?" "Are you real? Is this a dream?" "How did you find me?" But her voice silenced them all. "What are you painting?" So I showed her. I showed her the brook and the barn I had been working on all morning. I lamented how the light through the trees wasn't hitting the walls right, and how the water flowed unnaturally. It would never sell, I felt it in my heart. But as I explained this, she frowned. "Why do you paint this?" I opened my mouth and closed it. I started, "Well, rural landscapes are popular now, and if I want a piece to sell-" "No, why do you paint this?" She lifted a knarled finger to point at the cracks in the rocks, the light falling on the peeling paint, the broken wood of the barn. I stared at her. "I guess," I measured out slowly, "It's more beautiful if there are imperfections. It shows the emotion of the scene; that there were memories and a life lived there. That... so that the onlooker recognises something more than just the artist's skill." Tears pooled at the corner of her eyes as I explained, tracing crystiline paths down her sallow cheeks. I looked into her eyes, feeling empathy and connection for her. She nodded her head, as though my answer was all she needed to hear. Or maybe all I needed to hear. To remind myself why I started drawing all those years ago. At this thought, she patted my shoulder motherly, and turned to go. "Wait." I stole my courage. "Who are you? Why have I always drawn you?" She stoped, chair creaking as her weight shifted back. I searched the back of her head, hoping to find something. She breathed in. Out. A fresh flood of tears poured down her face. Emotion cascaded off her, waves of joy, sadness, fear, relief, anger. Each brings a memory. I am ten, I have skinned my knee falling off my bike. My father holds me close and combs his hadn through my hair. I am relieved. I am thirteen. My friends gather, jostling, around me as I blow my birthday candles out. I can't remember feeling more joyous than this. I am seventeen. My date has stood me up for prom. I watch him dance with another as I am overcome with anger and sadness. I am twenty four. My mother lies in the hospital bed, losing the battle for her life. We sit next to her, desperate and helpless, as monitors count down the days she has left. Her hand feels paper-thin in my palm. I grieve silently. I look at the lady, this Sobbing Woman, and finally understand. I understand all those drawings. All those faces and tears. My passion, my emotion. My "Why." Why I draw and paint. Why I love and I lose and I love again. Why I keep going.
A laugh builds in my throat, rumbling out of me like a thunder. I bend over, laughing and clutching my stomach. Laughing at the discovery of my muse. Laughing at my art. Laughing at the world for all it's ineffability. She leaves- still sobbing, as I turn back to my painting- still laughing.

“Liv, you finishing up yet?” Pete shouted from the door, hovering around to lock up.

He’d owned this studio about 10 years and was still the only one with a key, despite the four other artists he allowed inside. Once, I nearly convinced him to give me the spare, but he failed to find it in his bag and he never mentioned the conversation again. So, no matter how long I needed, we had to finish when he said.

My painting was still only a few hours from done, a few more brush strokes and I could finally work out what needs to be adjusted. “It’s only two in the afternoon, you’re meant to be open until five.” I shout back, heading into the main room. “I’m willing to beg, I need to finish today. This woman isn’t just in my head anymore.”

“She’s not real, she never will be. Painting what your head tells you to won’t bring her to life.” Pete scoffed, slumping against the wall.

He was right, painting something didn’t mean it was a real, but something about my painting felt more than a fantasy. I’d dreamt of this woman, that she would be important someday. Memory isn’t meant to last a lifetime, but in my twenty years on earth, I’d spent almost half of it with her face on my mind. From each year since seeing her in my dreams, I’d painted her portrait at least once. She would also be painted in works that involved people, even when I didn’t intend to.

It felt like, somehow, I knew her. I had no idea if she was actually real, or if I’d created her in my head and just felt connected in some way. But I was determined to put the reality or fantasy debate to rest.

“Look, Liv, the studio is open from seven til’ ten tonight. You must be there, well-rested.” He grabbed my bag from the hanger and held it out. “You can continue tomorrow, now let’s go.”

Pete was never going to give in to my constant pushing, but I didn’t intend to give up trying. My frame sunk and I joined him by the door.

Gallery viewings were never a favourite of mine and Pete never wanted to hire one out, so instead he would hold his own in the studio. Tickets cost $30 and only 100 were available, all time slotted as well. He oversold it once and no one was able to move. It was the only nights I’d ever see him wearing a suit. He would demand I dress up nice and even take me to shops to ensure I looked the part. One of the guys last near rocked up in a tracksuit and he was never seen again, Pete refused us from mentioning him.

“Brilliant turn out tonight, I’ve already sold half of my goal.” Pete chimed, checking the notes in his hands. “Any luck?”

Like every year, I’d done pretty well for myself and reached three-fourths of my goal. I’d reach to a decent point where I could float and sell the rest later.

I sighed, “I saw something the other day.” His eyes rolled into the back of his head, coming back round to land a glare in my direction. “Mystery man from someone’s writing turned up to his book shop. Imagine if that happened to me?”

He cackled, for a moment I debated if I was face to face with a witch just from the spiteful sound he made. “Olivia, you think too much. You’re not in college, do yourself a favour and forget. You’re going to hit a wall one day and your career will take the toll of it.” He snatched a martini from one of the servers, “Believe me, you will go far if you actually put your mind to it. I’m going to socialise, I suggest you do the same.”

He wanders off into the swarm of people, disappearing within seconds. I didn’t want to socialise, I didn’t even want to spend time here; it was only the promise of free use of the studio that made me attend these things in the first place.

A few people were looking around my section and I decided to return to my corner, hoping my goal would be reached in the next hour and I could go home early.

The hour went by fast and as predicted, I’d reached my goal. I grabbed my bag and phone, swiping the studio group chat open. ‘Hey Pete. Hit my goal, heading off. Speak tomorrow.’

There was still an hour of the viewing open and it was still as rammed as it had been from opening. My corner had grown empty and I used it as my time to sneak off. As much as I enjoyed painting, I needed time to myself. Collecting all my things, I just had the clearing to head off.

Suddenly, a female voice came from behind me. “Pardon me, can I ask a question?”

“Of course, how can I help?” I responded, before spinning myself to face the woman.

My jaw dropped. I looked around, her face filled every wall my work was occupying. I was confused, had I imagined a painting was speaking to me? But I couldn’t have, others were reacting to her presence when walking past. She was real.

She looked around then back to me, a small smile grew on her thin lips. “I understand we haven’t met, I’m Heather Ingrid. I’ve seen your paintings, fantastic work. But, I’m curious as to how you’ve been painting my face when we haven’t ever met. Can we talk?”

A lump grew in my throat. I couldn’t even process what was happening. All I could think of was that she was real. She was real and she was stood in a room filled with her face.

She gestured to the chairs in the corner, “Shall we?”

Today’s my birthday And you are still here. What do I say. You are always there.

Some people say that one moment, one action, can change a person’s life forever. That’s exactly what happened to me the second she walked into my life.

It was a slow Saturday afternoon on the 17th floor of my New York City studio apartment on Park Avenue. I was staring out my window, desperately searching for inspiration, hidden amongst the gorgeous New York skyline. All of my life as an artist, I had painted the same things over and over again; my city’s skyline, random people, and…her. A 30 or so year old woman, long copper hair, icy blue eyes, a white dress with blue flowers, brought to life from the endless depth of my imagination. How, I don’t know. Why, a question I don’t know how to answer.

After about an hour, my eyes and the rest of my body, couldn’t take another minute looking at the skyscrapers that where my life. So, I decided a nap wouldn’t hurt. I violently slammed my blinds down and stormed off to my bedroom. After five minutes of solitude, a soft knock came from my door. I threw the covers off my bed and marched to the door.

“What do you want?,” I cried out of pure annoyance, before I realized who was at the door. 30 or so years old. Long copper hair. Stunningly gorgeous icy blue eyes. A short white dress with blue flowers. No…it couldn’t be.

“Hello Callum,” the woman greeted shyly. My eyes widened and my jaw hit the floor.

“Who…how,” I stuttered. “No, you…you can’t actually be-be real”. The woman shrugged.

“Well, I do think that I am pretty real,” she replied. “But enough small talk. You need to come with me.”

“Why?,” I asked nervously.

“Your life depends on it, that’s why. Now hurry up if you don’t want to die.”

Dashing one final stroke against the bursting canvas before me, my eyes began to feel heavy. A throbbing headache formed behind my eyes as I left The Zone and suddenly became aware of the fact that I hadn’t had any breaks for the past eight or so hours.

I was working.

I can’t predict when my strokes of inspiration will arise, they just do. Sometimes when I’m sleeping I’ll have to jump out of bed to sketch; sometimes when I’m taking a shit I’ll have to suck it back in to plan out a painting. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing, my art and it’s inspiration will always come first.

My eyes are hardly open as I set my paintbrush down and they don’t look up when I hear the chime of the bell over the front door to the studio. I hate people coming in while I’m working, yet in my fits of passion I always forget to lock the front door.

“We’re closed for the day. Sorry,” I mumble at the figure before me, not meeting her eyes as I begin to stand up from my painting place on the floor. My knees creak and my joints groan. “Come back another time.”

I turn my back on the woman but she stays standing there– I can see her shadow off the evening glow on the floor. What the hell? I said we’re closed, lady.

“Excuse me,” she says in such a low whisper that I’m not even sure she really said it. I whip around, eyes now wide with annoyance. I open my mouth to tell her off in my tired anger, ask her what the hell is wrong with her, but my voice gets caught in my throat as my brain realizes who I am face to face with.

The same unknown woman who I have had dreams about every night since I can remember. The woman who, despite my insistence to the my foster parents, I have never met before. The woman who I swear I see walking through the streets of New York everyday. The woman who has been in every single one of my paintings, including the one sitting beside me that I finished not five minutes ago.

That same woman is standing before me right now.

“I…” I’m not one to ever be speechless, but at this moment in time I simply don’t have words. “I don’t… Can I.. help you?”

The woman smiles a warm smile– the same smile I painted just last week. I feel my breath catch as I recognize the uncanny resemblance between the acrylic lips I painted and the very real lips smiling in front of me.

“Oh dear, oh dear. And here I was thinking you’d remember me.”

If I thought I was at a loss before, now I’m at a complete loss for words. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

The woman’s smile never wavers. “Oh dear. It’s mama.”

“Maeve?” The young woman will strawberry blonde hair says. “I-Is that you?”

The woman darts her head to the direction the voice came from. Her eyes welled with tears. “Bella. I-It’s me.”

“Maeve!”

“Bella!”

The two young women ran to each other and embraced as tears streamed down both of their cheeks.

“I-I thought you were dead” Bella says when they finally pull away.

“No no no. I was framed for a crime I didn’t commit. I was in prison.”

“The police covered it up. Didn’t they?”

“Yeah. The lying pieces of sh-“

“Bella!” A young man with glasses on and dark hair shouted from across the room. “Does this painting look, realistic enough?”

“Wait! Give me five minutes Ben.”

“Bella. Oh my. I never thought I’d see you again!” The two embraced again.

“Oh my God! I forgot how much I love you!” Bella wrapped her arms around Maeve’s neck as their heads touched. “I promise to never give up on you.” She whispered.

“And I promise to try not to get wrongly framed again.” They chuckled together. The first time both of them had felt happy in a long time.

Maeve stroked her hand through Bella’s hair as their faces connected by the lips. They were together, at long last.

Eden grabbed the pile of papers sitting by the door and started walking back to her canvases. It had gotten colder in Wisconsin so she had to set up heaters as the heating in the studio was broken. Because of this there were cords everywhere that she wasn’t yet used to. She tripped over the cord and went to catch herself, the papers slipping out of her hands and flying across the floor. A couple people including the young woman who had just walked into the studio came over to help pick them up. The young woman crouched down to help, the bottom of her light green dress hit the floor as she stopped. She slowly picked up one of the drawings and looked up at the girl who stood up and grabbed the papers from the others who helped. She partly bowed and thanked them with a smile before she turned to the woman who stood up from the floor. Her smile slowly fell as she processed who was in front of her. The woman handed the paper to the girl who hesitantly grabbed it and put it on top of the pile, not looking away from the girl. “It’s not what it looks like.” The woman chuckled and looked at the paper which she had set upside down on the stack. “I love the drawing.” “I’m not a stalker I swear. I saw you at the coffee shop a while ago and I just thought you were really pretty and I was too scared to introduce myself.” The woman smiled and stuck out her hand. “Well. I’m Faith and I think what you do is very sweet.” Eden shifted the papers to her other arm and grabbed Faith’s hand. “Eden. Jones. My grandpa owns the studio so I spend most of my time here.” “Well, I heard there were maybe some art lessons here and I thought it might be fun to start.” “Then you came to the right place, Watson will get you set up for that.” Faith smiled and looked over to where Eden gestured before looking back at her. “Also. I was wondering if you’d show me the rest of those drawings. If you have time that is.” “Of course. Give me a minute.” Eden walked over to her canvases and set the papers on the table. She speed some of them out as Faith moved to Eden’s side of the table. Most of the pictures were drawn out and then painted with water colours. The one thing that stood out in almost every drawing were the bright amber eyes that sometimes contrasted her outfits. “You really got my eyes.” “I thought they were really pretty. You never sat very far away so I could always see them shine when the sun hit them just right.” Eden had a light blush across her face because she never thought she would actually speak to the woman she had seen every morning. She saw Faith move next to her making her look up. That’s when her eyes met Faith’s the bright amber shining like the sun, lighting up her whole world. The two looked at each other for a moment and right then and there is when Eden realized that she no longer had to be the creep painting from afar. She could tell that something special would form and she couldn’t wait for it to begin