Paint your wagon Part One

Why Don't You Love Me like you used to do
How come you treat me like a worn out shoe
My hair's still curly and my eyes are still blue
Why Don't You Love Me Like You Used To Do
~Hank Williams

The healer said she would allow me to paint her wagon. She liked the idea of the little yellow flowers I'd wanted to put on it too so off I went to get the paint, the brushes and begin the task. By the time I finished there were enough of the bright little blossoms peeping out from whimsical stalks of grass along the side to make a bouquet. One small one in the corner I even painted a face on, one with a big bright smile. I hoped she would like them. I know I enjoyed putting them there for her.

It gave me another bright idea. I could paint something on the side of his wagon too. Maybe not a huge mural but a cameo in a corner ... sort of near the back ... somewhere. Gathering up the paint I made a bee line for it. I even looked around for that .. that .. new slave of his. Nope, no where to be found. Good.
I don't really know where the image came from, I could just see it in my head and it began to unfold in vivid colors on the canvas. A small eggshell lay broken open near the bottom amidst a background of dark blue almost black. From within two butterflies took flight upward across the side of the wagon. One was a rich red with mottled red and black wings, the other smaller came to life in the same bright yellow I'd put on the Mistress wagon. I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted it to be a nice surprise when he saw it.

The finishing touches were being added when I felt .. yes felt him behind me. I felt his stare like it could cut right through me. I felt his breath hot and chilling at the same time as if it were right there against the back of my neck. It made the fine hairs there stand straight up. That instant terror. I tried to close my eyes and wish him away, but when they opened again he was still there, I was still there. I couldn't will myself to vanish this time. When I tried to stand up and turn around, I was shaking. Shaking so bad that the jar of red paint I had in my hand rattled the paintbrush against the rim.