Endless (Reckless #2)

Endless - Chapter Three

Once the image fades away, I stare at the portfolio. I hadn’t bothered taking it with me when I left. There was no point; I didn’t want to remember anything about the past. But now as I see the edges of smudged paper sticking out, I can’t help but pry the folder open.

On the very top, sits my first attempt at painting. The art of painting has never been a skill of mine - I definitely prefer pencil. I manage a small smile as I take in the soft hues and darker contrasts. Surprisingly, the painting isn’t too terrible.

As I remove each art piece after another, I see just how far I’ve come as an artist. Each piece is different, better and holds more emotion. Finally, I get to the last piece of art - a simple graphite pencil drawing. Only, it’s not so simplistic.

The drawing, I personally believed, was my best. It was of a woman in a gown, walking into the distance. You couldn’t see her face, only her silhouette. That’s what I loved so much about it - the ambiguity of it all.

I drew the picture during the weeks before I decided to impulsively take that bus to Ohio. I can’t recall every emotion that ran through me, but I do remember feeling exhausted with everything. I was done with being alone, neglected, pushed aside.

All I wanted was to be included. Wanted.

With a sigh, I shut the portfolio, and look back at the blank sheet haunting me.

I thought that looking at my old art would’ve inspired me - sadly, I still can’t feel anything. That was the thing about art - you have to feel something. Feelings create the greatest works of art. But right now, all I felt was…

And before I know what’s even happening, my fingers are flying across the paper.

I lose myself in the image I’m creating. I fill the sheet with all my pent up emotions - the feelings, or really the lack of, I’ve dealt with that last few weeks. I’m so in the zone I don’t hear the door open, and I don’t hear it when someone walks into the room.

“What are you doing, Adelaide?”

Whipping my head towards the door, my eyes widen and I freeze. Once I see who the person is, my shoulders slump in relief.

I give my father a sheepish smile, “Nothing.”

In reality, I wasn’t doing nothing - I was finally drawing again. Glancing down at the drawing, I nearly shriek at what I drew. Then suddenly, I forget how to breathe. Seeing my distress, my father walks over to the edge of the bed.

“I haven’t seen you do much since…” he says, trailing off and eyes glazing over. “What did you draw?”

All I can do is nod and flip over the paper. When I don’t show my father the drawing, he pries my hands away from the edges and examines the sheet. His eyes widen and I’m not sure how he sees it.

“I’ve been kind of melancholy these past few-” I start to say.

“Adelaide, this is great.”

I look at the paper, sadness dripping from the image. I can’t believe I even drew that, but I can’t deny that the drawing isn’t great - it really is. The image evokes a lot of emotion.

“Though, I am wondering… whose eyes are these?”

Immediately, I tense up.

I didn’t want to tell him.

I couldn’t tell him.

So, I go with a vague answer. “Oh, just a pair of eyes I saw passing by.”