Michael Jackson Imagines

Paint Me a Heart (Part 1/3)

Requested by BaileyTheArtist124.  Everyone go check out her Michael fan art!

Something's missing you thought as you scrutinized the canvas. You tapped your paintbrush on the edge of the easel as the gears in your mind turned. Your eyes locked on a small piece of your painting, on the surface of the rippling lake that glittered gold in the glow of the setting sun. "That's it," you thought aloud. You tried to grin, but your eyes were tired and dull.

Something's missing.

The joy you used to feel when you painted. That's what was missing.

To be a professional artist – that had been your dream. You worked hard to improve your skills, went to school, even moved to California to start your own studio. Hardest of all, you had left behind a teaching position you adored, all the students you loved so much, just to follow your dream.

But now that your dream had become reality, you felt no satisfaction in it, no happiness. Years ago, a blank canvas had been a welcoming sight, something that motivated and challenged you.

Now, you felt like you were chained to your easel, forced to paint only what you were told to paint, not what you loved, because some celebrity wanted a pretty picture for their mansion wall. And they hired you to paint it.

You dipped your brush into your brightest golden color and leaned in close to your work - taking care not to touch the wet canvas with your nose - and applied the sunshine paint to the undulating water. You monitored the movement of the bristles with the focus of a surgeon and tried to keep your hand and eyes in perfect harmony. It was a difficult task because your eyelids grew heavier and heavier, longing to rest, to be finished for the day. You struggled until you could no longer keep them open, and the world around you faded away. For a blissful moment, the warmth of the sunset ravaged your skin and the lake water chilled your feet.

The phone rang.

Your eyes snapped open, and you jumped in your chair. Mortified, you watched your hand jolt, flicking the yellow paint in places it was not supposed to go. You almost snapped the brush in half. Cursing, you frantically rubbed your hands on your black leggings as you stood from your chair and rushed to the phone. The caller ID told you it was your manager, Richard Hughes. You answered.

"This better be important, Rich. I'm in the middle of a piece."

"Oh," Rich stammered, caught off guard by your sharp tone. "I'm sorry for interrupting." He sounded hurt.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. "No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have barked at you like that."

"Is something the matter?"

"The usual. I haven't slept in two days, but other than that I'm fine. Just stressed."

He sighed. "I'm sorry, (Y/n). Make sure you get some rest after today, but right now I have some news that might cheer you up."

You dared to hope. "Really? What is it?"

"I just got a commission for you."

Your heart sank. "Why would that make me feel better?"

"I know it sounds like more work, but you don't understand. It's a phenomenal job."

You walked to the bathroom sink and, propping up the phone with your shoulder, scrubbed the dried, multi-colored mess from your hands. "Phenomenal, huh? Well, what are you waiting for? Tell me all about it."

Rich cleared his throat uneasily. "Well, that's the thing, (Y/n). I can't tell you who it is."

This caught you off guard. You stopped washing your hands, shook them, and grabbed the nearest towel. "You can't tell me? Do you know who it is?"