I stood speechless, admiring the miraculous, hand-crafted wonder presented before me in a frame of gold and silver. I thought of the proper words, but none quite right came to mind; 'masterpiece,' was a massive understatement, and, 'a work of art' didn't quite exactly fit the agenda. I needed something lovely, something thoughtful, something robust, something to make her heart skip that extra beat.

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"D-Do you like it?"

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"I. . ." the words spilled out. "I love it."

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Oh, who am I kidding? Of course, I loved it — I always do. Not once has she painted a piece I so much as even disliked, much less so despise. Everyone, and I mean absolutely everyone, agreed with me on that note — critiques and enthusiasts alike.

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"Do you really?"

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I let the colors dance before me in a paragon of fine artwork: lovely reds bled off the canvas like rain amidst a summer evening, cold blues portrayed the very seas perfectly, beckoning greens no different from lively jungles sprung to fruition, and warm yellows second to no Escardian sunrise flared to life. All harmonized with one another perfectly.

So very perfectly.

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Always.

I felt the coarse paint beneath my fingertips. "Of course! I have yet to meet a painter quite as. . . Talented and skilled as yourself, Laia."

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She blushed; a strand of velvet hair fell becomingly before her face. "You really think so?"

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The smirk clawed its way out. "Sure, why not?"

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Of course she would paint a piece as gorgeous as this one. Of course she would whip up a grand masterpiece in a matter of weeks. Of course she. . . Would fashion a work of art so much better than any painter's to ever set foot on Escardia — myself included.

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"The shading could use a little work though, don't you think? The blending too. And don't even get me started on the. . ."

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Dozens of prestigious awards, hundreds of potential clients, thousands of loyal fans — what more could one ask for? Every artist to have ever held a brush dreamed of such career, and here she was, living that very dream.

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Which makes me wonder. . .

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Who am I to her?

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Really?

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A lesser?

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A copy?

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A. . .

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Fraud?

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She droned on and on, imagining the many slight, little, nonexistent flaws that plagued her piece. And as she stood there, muttering something about the wrong color combination, my eyes fell to the palette knife lying nonchalantly atop the paint-splattered tabletop.

My hand twitched.

And there came a voice.

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"Do it."

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"What?"

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"You are nothing; you will always be nothing."

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"That's not true. I'm — "

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"A what? A lesser of her? A copy? A. . ."

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"Don't you dare."

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"Fraud?"

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"She's better than me, that's just it."

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"Is it? Is that all there is to it? You can't lie to me Séverin. I know better."

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"Yes. . . It's. . . That's. . ."

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"It isn't, is it? Deep down, we both know who, and what you are."

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"I'm. . . A painter."

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"Hah! Don't make me laugh. You really think you can call yourself one? All your pieces are but pathetic little reenactments of hers. Traces. Copies. Unoriginals. In the end, you will be remembered only as her shadow, and as nothing more than a starving artist chasing someone else's dream. Doesn’t this bother you, Séverin? Would you not rather make, than replicate?"

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"That's. . . I make my own art!"

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"What was your latest work again? 'La Danse De La Renaissance?' Now, where have I seen such ingenious use of reds and blues, all blended seamlessly into the backdrop? Where have I seen such exquisite painting before? Ah, yes, of course — hanging from her bedroom walls, and on her exhibit displays."

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"That's a coincidence."

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"What about 'Les Résistants?' A tiresome copy of 'Levée En Masse,' if I remember correctly, and not a particularly good one too, might I add. What about ‘Rogue Blues?’ Your version of her ‘Rain and Grey?’ ‘The Thinking Man?’ ‘28 Hours?’ ‘Red and Death.’ I can keep going."

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The palette knife stared back, beckoning me forth and drawing a hand.

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"Just one slice, Séverin, and all your wishes will come true to life. Her talents will be yours; her admirers, yours; her dreams. . . Yours."

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I couldn't stop myself. Before I knew it, the blade had made its way into the palm of my hands and polished itself to a shine. She was still busy meticulously nitpicking her own piece, and had hardly begun to notice the missing knife.

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"You know you want to; there's no point in denying. It’s quick, trust me. She won’t even feel anything."

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"I. . . I can't do this."

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"Of course, you can! Just let the knife do the work, remember? It's all about the first stroke."

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"I. . ."

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"Or would you rather be her second?"

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"I. . ."

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"Forever?"

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Laia turned her back to me.

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I raised the blade.

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"The red needs a little work, don't you think so?"

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I said nothing.

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"Séverin? Buddy?"

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The words slipped out. "I'm so sorry."