There are so many colours in the world. But the question is, what do they mean?
Red is the colour of love...anger...blood. White is the colour of peace...innocence...death. Purple means royalty, while yellow shows gaiety.

One colour does not signify a single emotion. It depends on the person, and how they perceive it. It is like the difference between an optimist and a pessimist. An optimist will say that the glass is half-full of water, while a pessimist will say that the glass is half empty.

Through an artist's eyes, the colours, if alone, don't mean anything. To him, blue is blue, and red is red. But, give him a canvas and a brush, and the colours become so much more.

It all depends on his mood. An artist will paint whatever suits his mind. He will paint whatever he is feeling - anger, frustration, hate or just calm. One good look at the canvas will reveal the artist's emotions. The thickness of his lines, his choice of shades, the strokes - they reveal the artist's heart just like the words in a diary. And to an artist, his canvas is his diary, concealed by layers of paint, yet on display for the world to see.

In the small studio of his apartment, a man was standing before a large easel. The strong smell of turpentine and oil hovered in the air, and a long, thick, brush hung loosely between his thin fingers. His grey eyes were glazed in concentration and his brow was furrowed in thought, as the brush moved slowly over the canvas, covering the rough cloth with colour wherever it touched. Adam Jones was painting.

He didn't know what he was painting. He had just felt like painting something that day, and the rest happened on its own. Before he knew it, his hands were moving the brush on their own accord, applying forceful and soft strokes where needed. His forehead was beaded with sweat and his dark hair was matted on it. He wanted to swipe his hair away from his eyes, but his fingers were smudged with paint, and he didn't want his face to be smeared as well.

The studio was quiet. It had only one door, and one window. The noises of the outside world could not penetrate its walls. This was why Adam chose this room as his studio. This was where he felt most at peace, and think without any hindrances. This was his sanctuary.

Canvases lined the wall and old paint brushes were discarded on the floor alongside empty curled-up tubes. Adam had painted the walls whenever he was running low on canvases, and it was covered with portraits, sceneries, and anything that had occupied his mind at the time. One wall was only painted of people's faces he saw or knew. Little girls with bright smiles, old men with wrinkled faces, or beautiful women he saw covered this wall.

Another was of the places he visited. The park, with its apple trees, the museum with the paintings of the artists he liked, and the lake with white geese, was painted here.

The wall with the window had different animals painted on it: cats, dogs, birds, and even monkeys. This one looked like a jungle.

The last wall was blank.

Adam didn’t know what he wanted to paint on that wall. He had plenty of blank canvases now, and didn’t have any reason to paint on it. Neither did he have any inspiration for it. So, he left it like that – white, blank and lonely, and decided to let it be.

Adam painted continuously for six hours, not even wanting to take a break. He felt like he needed to finish the painting. He could never stand incomplete paintings, but this one was special. This one had to be finished.

Another hour later, Adam finally awoke from his intense reverie of painting, and focused on his canvas. The brush in his fingers fell to the floor with a clatter, as a gasp escaped his mouth.

The painting was of a woman. Her brown eyes stared blankly at Adam, while her body was twisted in an uncomfortable way. She was wearing a white nightdress, smeared with something red. Blood.

A knife with an ornamental handle was sticking out of her chest, and beside it was a small, black rose that was also smeared with the woman’s blood.

With shaking hands, Adam lightly touched the canvas. The woman had a soft, beautiful face, but her hair…her head was shaved.

He had never painted anything so violent. Why did he paint this? All he felt like was holding the brush, and the next thing he knew, he was moving it without thinking of what he painted to paint. What did this mean?

Sadly, Adam couldn’t answer these questions himself. All he felt was shock, disgust…and fear.