Speak

Chapter 01- Him

He wanted to be a painter. When he was twelve, his mother had taken him to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He had seen this one painting about this really big wave in Japan or someplace.

When he first saw the painting, he stopped. He was in the middle of telling his mom some stupid story from school, or maybe a joke, he couldn't quite remember now, but when he spotted the painting, he paused, right in the middle of a sentence, and turned to face it directly.

It looked like something off the coast of Florida, where he'd spent the larger part of his life. Staring at the painting was like staring at the place where he'd first learned to surf, or at one of those beachside restaurants they so often ate at.

The blue water lapped up high in the piece. The foamy tips of the water curved down to lick helpless boaters. It rolled over them like a blanket, seeming gentle, although that, of course, couldn't be true - later, when he had looked up the painting, he read that it was thought to be a tsunami.

There's nothing gentle about a freaking natural disaster.

But the way the grey mountains softly stood out in the background, a barrier to the raging sea - it reminded him so much of his family. They were the water, danger and beauty and unintentional harm, and he was the mountainside, grey and invisible and the damn barrier to the rest of the world, who just wouldn't be able to handle everything in this infinite storm stirring within him - within his whole family. Even at twelve years old he could see it. Even then he would wince at the mere thought of Florida and all that had happened there.

Although the waves in Naples weren't quite as tall as the ones in the painting, he still couldn't help but feel a sharp pang in his chest as he remembered the reason why his family had been shipped out of the sunshine state and into New York, home of congested sidewalks and polluted oxygen. It was an open wound, even now.

But this was somehow what triggered his aspirations for becoming an artist.

On the way home, he begged for a solid twenty minutes for his mom to buy him a set of paints. It wasn't until he reminded her that she'd been wanting him to "try new things" and "live a little" since they'd moved to The Big Apple that she huffed into a stuffy little shop and demanded the clerk hand over the cheapest set they had.

Now, five years later, he sat in front of an intimidating blank easel in art class. He really wasn't a great artist. In fact, he was awful. But he loved it.

Except right now. Right now he sort of hated it. Artist's block sucked.

The boy sighed and pulled out his phone, thankful that the teacher allowed music - "As long as it gets your creative juices flowing!" she'd always say, each time succeeding in making him extremely uncomfortable. He picked out some indie music and squeezed a set of earbuds in.

Inspired by a Bastille song, he dipped a thin brush into a blob of black paint, swirling it onto the bright canvas. It was always easier when the easel was no longer blank. So, as the song continued, he lightly stroked his paintbrush with yellows and blues and greens, which effectively left a constellation of colors on his once-solid white apron, but he, of course, didn't mind.

When the bell rang, he popped out his earbuds and grinned at his half-finished painting. The sky shone back at him on the easel. He'd begun with nighttime. Half of his painting would be midnight, and it would slowly etch into daybreak, and then to noon. "Expatiating Time," he was thinking of calling it.

He was really proud of this idea. Although his actual painting skills were sub-par, his creativity had expanded like a balloon since he began this course, and that was enough for him.

He stood up and dusted off his apron, before slinging it over his head and draping it on his stool. He stared at the partial-painting for a while longer, not wanting to leave the studio quite yet.

Here, the boy felt safe. In fact, he felt more at home in this room than he did in his own kitchen. Because here, he didn't have to be the independent one, the father figure, the man of the house.

He slowly trudged to the sink in the back corner of the studio, by the window.

As he lathered his hands with a fruity smelling soap, he stared out at a large oak tree, resting not ten feet from where he was there. If the glass hadn't been there separating the outside from in, he might've been able to reach out and touch the tips of the leaves.

In that moment, he noticed that he was strangely similar to a leaf, both in a constant state of falling, being kicked around and walked all over, with no one particularly caring about what that was like.

He realized, though, that it would've been quite nice to be a leaf. If he were a leaf, there would be no fear of falling, no pain if he were crushed under someone's shoe.

God, he was comparing himself to a leaf.

Finally, the boy sighed and left the room, slowly lifting his bag onto his shoulder, thinking about where he should put the tree in his painting.

A/N:

The painting is called "The Great Wave off Kanagawa," by artist Katsushika Hokusai. TBH I don't know anything about it, but it's a beautiful painting, is it not?

Anyway, I hope you like the story!:) I actually don't know much about New York or Florida, but trust me, I will do my research.

Hannah out. ✌🏻️