I let out a shuddering breath and begin.
Mixing the colors and laying the first few strokes are awkward, but I tell myself the fact that they exist is enough. Art isn't art in the early stages.
It's Mom's voice in my head now.You can't fix a blank canvas, Eli.
After a few minutes, things start to take shape. Have depth. And I've almost gotten that shade of clear, bright jade just right. But a spasm in my hand makes the brush kick up, and I feel the pain I've been ignoring the last twenty minutes.
There's a little smear of multifaceted green going into her pupil now, and I grit my teeth.
"Fuck."
The brush snaps between my fingers, and I growl my frustration, chucking it across the room.
Seven watches it soar across the empty studio with a whistle from where he's standing in the doorway, arms crossed, leaning against the frame like he's been there a while.
I swallow tightly. "How long have you been there?"
He shoves off the wall like he might come here to get a closer look at the pitiful attempt on the canvas.
"Don't," I snap. "Just don't."
He holds his hands up. "I'm sure it's not half as bad as you think it is, E."
From this angle, he can't see the canvas, so he doesn't know what I was trying to paint, but I'm sure he can guess. Doesn't matter, though, because I'm still not showing him.
From his expression, I can tell there's a lot more he wants to say right now. His throat bobs, and he works his jaw like he's figuring out where to start, but when he stays silent, I'm glad.
I'm not ready to talk about what this is. What it means. It might not mean anything.
I might not ever pick up a brush again after I'm done getting this out.
IfI can even get this out without the spasms and pain making it almost impossible.
The emotion I can see in the way he's looking at me is already enough to bear. It adds pressure, even if I know Sev doesn't mean to.
"You're up early," I comment.
I'd been trying to do this now so I could get it all cleared away before he was up, but the fucker has been as restless as the rest of us lately.
"Since five," he confirms. "Even went a round in the gym already."
Damn. And we don't even have to leave for the laundromat until late this afternoon.
"If you're not careful, you're going to turn into Atticus."
"No way." He laughs. "If I were wound that fucking tight, I'd snap."
He jerks his chin to my hand. "Is it bothering you?"
I clench my teeth. "Of course it's fucking bothering me. Hurts like hell, and a muscle spasm messed up the whole thing."
"You can't fix a?—"
"A blank canvas," I finish. "I know, man. I know."
I sigh.
"Is it the pinching motion that's causing the strain?"
