Being alone didn't help her as much as she had hoped. She never was good at being idle, and though having felt suffocated with her husband around, wanting to help- she still felt suffocated, though now by her own thoughts, her own fears.
Ten minutes turned into twenty, into thirty- and soon she couldn't stand it, and made her way down the hall, up the stairs and into her painting room. She passed canvas after canvas of art that reminded her of all those bottled up emotions she had trouble to contain. But she refused to cry at the memories, and found herself tearing open her paints, scrambling to find a paint brush, which she hastily dipped into paint-
Only to stand there with it dripping onto the floor, eyes stuck on the blank canvas in the dark, unlit room.