SaiOuma Stories

"I only paint pretty things" pt 2

[in simple terms. I lied. Is isn't short and sweet. It's long and sweet??? I wanted to pin the blame on someone so it's a bit much. Sorry if I disappointed anyone with this😅😬 ps. I may or may not have re read this. So typos are very possible.]

The day following that one was an exchange of numbers.

The week following that day was his first date.

And the following two weeks from those seven days, was  four more dates with an invitation to an art show at the most pristine college in the area.

His mom was the one to find the letter. Sadly he was the second to read it.

"I'm...not doing it." The appalled look from his mother was the next to the same look she gave him when he told her his paintings were cut into pieces. "Kokichi, why?" Was all she could ask.

He shrugged and stared past her. "Because the jerk who tore up my pieces before weren't caught. Everyone by now forgot about it, and I personally don't like having my work ruined."

He brushed his hair from his eyes, he trying to focus on his charcoal piece until his mom opened the door to his room, interrupting his peace. Recently, all his pieces were being stowed away. Deep into portfolios that were pushed to the back of his closet. She sighed, an air of sympathy pushed into the tension filled room.

"It must be frustrating. But that doesn't mean holing yourself up. Who ever did that was just saying your stuff was good. And who passes up a chance to go to that University?"

"People who'd rather not humiliate themselves."

She sighed. "You're imposible. Talented but blind." She left with leaving the letter on his desk besides him.

He shoved it aside for later. He wanted to blow off some steam he collected over night. Thinking about his work. How utterly ruined it was. It still put him in an awfully sour mood.

He looked back at his sketch. He ran his fingers over the paper. The feeling of soft powder chalking up his fingertips smudged on the underside of the perimeter he traced. Dark lines stood out tauntingly compared to the gentle tones in some parts.

He smeared the black dust, enjoying the feeling of it imprinting his hand. Though the drawing itself was rather depressing, he felt thoroughly happy with its outcome. The figure in his drawing had their back towards the on looker. Running their hand along smudged books that faded into black the more closer to the end of the paper it got.

In one hand, they held a lantern. Sure it was old fashion, but it just sparked his Interest. The strain on their hand holding the light was apparent. With their head slightly turned to the side, their discomfort was clear. Stressed, and worried. In the foreground was a corner of a table with coffee still steaming with black smoke fuming from its mug.

One little stroke added to the identity of this person, and that little stoke was in the middle of their head. Where a strand of hair never lay flat.

He slipped the paper into his hands. Holding it back to admire his own handy work as he usually did.

He looked over every detail and found no flaws.  It was just how he felt about him. Dark, stressed, and absolutely flawless. Searching for calmness in his love of books that faded into nothing the more he looked. Since love should not be so hard to find. Love should be as easy as turning around. And seeing the one right there, watching and waiting with open arms.

It was meaningful, to him. So he'd never let anyone see it. He set it back down on his slanted draw table. He needed to find that spray that made charcoal smudge-less. Which must be buried under his acrylic paints.