He looked down at the remote in his hand, pausing for a moment. I started to worry he was falling asleep because of how still and silent he was. He glanced up quickly, looking at the corner before turning back to me. “Have you thought more about painting? You never did say anything when I brought up the idea of having Sarah get you some supplies from the store.”
Shrugging, I looked anywhere but at him. I didn’t want to meet his gaze. I was afraid that, if I did, he’d see right through me. Through the bullshit facade I’d learned to live with for the last nine years. The lie I’d told myself and everyone else. That my very first love—the only passion I’d ever had in life—was dead and gone.
The truth? I’d thought about it. Agonized over it. The idea of never painting again was incomprehensible. Younger me would’ve slapped present me for even suggesting it. Honestly, he would’ve done more than slap me for letting a man like Jude take it away from me.
Sometimes, I dreamt about it. In the dreams, I’d have this gorgeous, wonderful idea, and I’d spend hours executing every detail. When I woke up, I’d never remember the idea, and I’d never see the final product. Like a nightmare that kept resurfacing, my passion and talent would chase me.
“I can get some stuff for you if you’d like.” I knew he was looking at me, studying my face for some sort of sign.
Could I even comprehend the idea of trying again? I shrugged, deciding a non-answer was the best answer. If hewanted to bring supplies into the apartment, I guessed I wouldn’t mind. I wouldn’t say yes, though. Admitting it out loud almost felt like a bad omen.
Crescent switched the channel to something different. I felt the couch dip slightly as he fell against it. “Once we eat, we can run up to the store, then.”
I looked at the screen, not really watching or absorbing anything playing on it. My eyes unfocused, leaving nothing but a blurry, incomprehensible show of colors and sounds. Colors I found myself envying—so free and vibrant without a single ounce of effort.
The blank canvashad come to life at some point, staring straight into my eyes. Small bumps in its rough texture started to open up, speaking in a language I couldn’t understand. Somehow, I knew what they were saying even without the words.
They were mocking me. Though they had no lips or teeth, they were snarling at me with disgust. Contempt. Disbelief. I let my gaze roam over each white space on the canvas, imagining the way it’d feel beneath my fingertips, though I didn’t dare touch it.
No—if I touched it, I’d ruin it. Right? That’s all I ever did. Crescent had gone to the closest store to us, letting me stay at the apartment while he was gone. It didn’t take him very long, sticking to the short list of items I’d written down for him to get. His number was at the top of my favorites list in my contacts, only a tap away if I’d needed him. It was the security we both needed.
A simple, blank canvas. One set of acrylic paints in eachof the basic colors on the color wheel. A set of paintbrushes in various sizes and types. A palette to mix paints on. He’d also brought me a cup full of water to clean the brushes off when needed. All the ingredients an artist needed to make a painting, yet none of them could make the painting without the artist.
And I no longer felt like an artist. I felt like a con. My solitude was the room I more often than not shared with Crescent each night. Each wall held a secret, or a memory I knew I wasn’t privy to. I still thought about them, as past ideas from a past me who no longer existed came and went in my mind.
Landscapes of beautiful, sunny meadows with nothing but fields of green forgiveness turned muddy in my head. Dark, secretive mounds of dirt took hold, banishing the once-beautiful fantasy world I’d created and replacing it with one of pity and despair.
Countless photos of different flowers and animals came to mind as well, something teenage me would’ve appreciated with bright, open, and young eyes. Innocent eyes. They burned into the edges of my mind, turning into the bloodied mouth of a hungry lion. The sides of its mouth, along with its snarling teeth, were painted with my soul. A crimson facade, deep and remarkable in its color, with hidden crypts containing my happiness.
My hand shook as I reached for a paintbrush. A simple, fresh brush with nothing to stain it yet. Its bristles were straight and even, not yet abused by the hours of a painter’s frustration. I’d always loved fresh brushes. The potential in them had fascinated me.
But what potential could I lead them to, when I feared nothing but failure would show? I shook my head, grabbing the paint palette, the red paint, and the white. After squeezing out dots of each, I swirled the brush into them,mixing them together until they became a beautiful shade of pink. My first mark on the canvas was a simple, pink stripe.
My first vibrant swatch of color since I’d painted the angel that was still held captive in my old home. I stared at it, brush in hand, and wondered what it felt like. How the acrylic used to feel against my skin when I’d accidentally paint my finger instead of the canvas.
Was it cold, like my heart?
I stared even longer, willing my brain to conjure up something useful. When nothing came to mind except for a hundred thousand different memories I didn’t want to remember, I put my hand to the canvas, letting the brush guide me.
Like a magnetic bait bobbing in the ocean, picking up random scraps of trash and metal, I let whatever was left of my passion come out with muscle memory.
Though when I stood back to evaluate what I’d done, I realized exactly how much I’d lost. Nothing but streaks of pink splattered across it, looking like a finger painting I’d once done in kindergarten.
“Fuck,” I whispered. There was no one around to hear it except for the walls watching me in stunned silence.Fuck.
Had I truly lost it? The ability to turn the world into something unique. My way of hugging Mother Nature to thank her for existing.
I set the brush down on the tray Crescent had brought into the room for me. Right next to the brand-new acrylic paints; most of them were left unopened. I walked out of the bedroom with shame trailing my footsteps, the floor beneath me soaking with it all. I almost felt bad for it, having to handle being stepped on by someone like me.
I walked solemnly down the hallway and into the livingroom. Crescent was on his phone, his brows furrowed in concentration. The TV was on in front of him, but he didn’t seem to be paying attention to it.
He noticed me after only a few seconds, turning my way. “Hey, everything okay?”
I shook my head, willing my voice to work. Nothing came out, as if my vocal cords were blocked by something completely solid.
“Come here, Sunshine.” Crescent moved back a little, pocketing his phone and opening his arms for me.
I slid into them with ease. They wrapped around me tight, the warmth that was Crescent Miller enveloping me whole. We didn’t say a word, simply letting time pass us by. There wasn’t any sense of urgency or the need to fill the air between us with anything more than we could manage.
