A Taste of Candor

Chapter 16

~Tahlia.

A rainy landscape began to take form on my canvas, the dreary and sad atmosphere spanning the top half of the painting serving as an accurate reflection of my soul's timbre. I currently sprinkled slanted flecks of indigo paint that plummeted to the ground I hadn't yet brought to life. Soon, the raindrops I painted would finally outnumber the lonely tears I had shed during my five days of imprisonment thus far.

My predicament in discovering a counter to my boredom proved itself quite pressing. I lacked the attention span and concentration to enjoy a good book to pass the time. Yet I also experienced a woeful motivational famine. Even though I forced myself into some painting, in reality, I simply went through the motions to pass some time.

Then the door to my studio creaked open, and with a tired glance back, I realized it was my mother who had entered. With a forced smile, I dipped my head to acknowledge her, and then I set my brush and palette down to give her my full attention.

"Lovely work there, Tahlia." my mother said, glancing over the half-painted canvas and smiling, "I see the saying is true, that from great adversity comes great art."

Inside, my heart boiled at her apparent attempt to make light of the pain she caused me, but to my credit, not a muscle in my face betrayed this thought.

"I suppose so." I replied in a level tone, "Did you require my assistance for—"

"I do not require anything, but I have been uncovering some old family treasures long forgotten in the basement. In doing so, I have found a collection of portraits that may interest you."

"I'd be glad to join you, then."

To be frank, spending time with my mother who had inflicted me with this confinement would make me far from glad, but nonetheless, I did find myself intrigued to learn what forgotten portraits lay in the depths of our mansion. So after wiping my hands off on a rag, I followed my mother out the studio door.

At the top of the stairway that looked down on the basement door, I followed my mother's prompting to put on a coat. Out of all the rooms in our house, the basement carried the unique distinction of being the only one not to have been installed with heating. After all, though we had much in the way of wealth, that by no means meant my father was a useless spender for the sake of it.

That done, we made our way down the stairs, and sure enough, a cold draft already swept out from under the door and over my bare feet. Pulling my coat tighter around myself, I followed my mother into the dim, chilly chamber in the depths of our home.

Twin walls of boxes and containers hemmed me in on either side and formed a narrow passageway through which we proceeded. However, here and there, a box had been removed from the stacks, leaving holes and gaps in the walls. If I peeked through here and there, I could spot the many bookshelves occupying a large part of the basement. We owned so many books that the study and various shelves upstairs couldn't contain them all; the basement served as a gathering place for the old, retired, and questionable volumes in our possession.

My mother led me past those bookshelves shortly, finally stopping at a round table underneath a bright lamp. Underneath the spotlight beam sprawled out portraits and photographs of various sizes. Mother immediately reached for one in particular to show me.

"I do not believe I have ever shown you this," she began, "but this photograph was taken on the evening your father and I were wed. Oh, to be young again."

With a brief smile, I took a closer look at the black and white photo. They both appeared so much younger, as their wedding had been just a bit less than thirty years ago. My father in particular laughably lacked the distinguished facial hair he currently flaunted, left at that time with little more than a minimal goatee and a patchy mustache.