Kestrel held the paintbrush with a delicate hold.
In her other hand, a piece of cardboard served as a makeshift palette. She sat on a stool, with a easel and canvas positioned before her.
She painted the forest, the trees, the sunlight leaking through them. She painted even the swampy part of the dense wood, blending the colors by stippling the brush. Gentle strokes to create the sweeping branches of the pine trees, and careful, articulate strokes to create the slender branches that climbed the sky. She used greens and blues, and even a little yellow trickling down from the trees.
She could smell the brisk pine on the breeze, feel the warmth of the spring sun. She could hear the birds singing fearlessly overhead, taste the muggy dampness that clung to the air.
But she could not see.
She reached across the table at her right, sliding her fingers across the surface until they brushed her last clean brush. She grasped it lightly and dipped the bristles into the final pile of paint she had left untouched: red.
Red, for the blood she had seen leaking from a head wound as a woman bashed her head into a window over and over again.
Red, for the ribbon in the little girl's hair who had seen the darkness and had feared it so much that she could not tear her eyes away.
Red, for her brother who she had last seen wearing red sneakers. Those sneakers had been the last part of him she'd seen before he'd flung himself off of the bridge and his bones were shattered on the rocks below.
She withdrew from the palette that she could not see, sensing that it was finished. She stood and stepped to her left, careful not to bump the easel, nor the white dog who lifted her head at hearing Kestrel's movements.
She turned away from the palette, from the forest, and opened the door. Dusty air welcomed her as she stepped inside, pausing with the door open to let the dog inside with her.
She only removed her blindfold when the door slammed shut behind her, the lock clicking shut.
In the world where she could not see, she still saw red.