Red on Beige; Blood on skin.

The artist sat in the middle of the room, staring at his newest painting. Bright red, it was changing shape before his very eyes. As the red slowly trickeled down the canvas onto the dusty, blackened floor, he contemplated his life thus far.
All he had in life was pressure from his parents, teachers and peers. He never truly got a chance to be who he wanted, until the time he finally ran away from home. Even then it still took someone else to mould him into the person that he was today. But now she was gone, forever, because failure after failure left him disillusioned with life, and he did not want her to suffer with him anymore. So he ran away again.
As he reminicised, the blood trickling from his arm slowly came to a stop, surprising him. He thought he had cut himself deep enough this time. "No matter," he thought and he stood up for the first time in hours.
He walked to his window. There the panoramic view took his breath away. For a moment he reconsidered his decision, because if such beauty existed in the world, then he could definitely do something beautiful with his life too. But the novelty soon wore off, like the many things that entered and exited his life.
Looking at the cityscape, he took a deep breath, then smiled. His emancipation was finally here.
Then he took his life.