untitled

ch 5

Viola 

I could not stop thinking of the dark painting in Ryley's room. It had been hours and the image refused to leave my mind's eye. When I had looked at it, reached toward it, I could sense its energy. I could see the pain, the grief and desperation behind it. Worse, I could feel it. As I touched the colors that reached out from the canvas and thickened the air, they had almost seemed to absorb into my skin, tainting my blood with the emotion of every brushstroke. I could see this light in front of most of his paintings, some misty and bright and others thicker and darker hues. They didn't necessarily seem to depend on the colors Ryley had used, but on the emotions he felt while painting. One near the ceiling had been a murky green forest, but the light spilling out had been his natural silvery white, some light blues highlighting it throughout. But the black one, the one he'd explained to be about his father, matched its colors perfectly. The thick greys and blacks seemed to ooze into the air, no light or flickers present in it anywhere. When I'd touched it I'd immediately tapped into his rawest and darkest emotion, felt the thickest grief and familial longing for a man I'd never met. When I pulled away, turning toward Ryley, wanting to apologize or say anything to explain to him that I understood, I was startled by the tears in my eyes, not having felt them form. 

Something about this encounter, about experiencing grief with him, made me think of my family. I wondered if they'd felt this when I passed, if they'd mourned that much, hurt that deeply. I could only hope they hadn't. No one deserved to feel that. 

Then after his little joke, and admission, about my eyes, he continued showing and explaining the other paintings in his room. Most of the ones he highlighted as his favorites were the ones with the brightest colors, showing the peacefulness of scenes and paints that seemed to create this feeling for him. Most were abstract, but there were a few portraits of his mother and sister. I asked if he had ever done a self portrait and this made him embarrassed, turning a deep red before telling me no. I felt he was lying but I couldn't imagine why. I stared at the dark painting again before we left and he showed me to the room that would become mine for the time being. I was staying upstairs this time, right across the hall, so he reminded me that he was there if I needed anything. I had tried to ignore the feeling that shot through my stomach when he said this. 

I knew he could tell there was something that was bothering me, but he didn't ask and I knew I couldn't just tell him. I fell asleep quickly, but my dreams were more smeared and blurry greys and blacks drowning me throughout the night. I was grateful, though, that I did not  see any faces from my past. 

I woke up extremely groggy and ill-tempered. My body ached worse somehow, feeling bruised all over. My ankle, though a little stronger, was entirely black and blue, looking like a spreading ink stain up my calf and shin. I peered around the room from my spot in the disheveled sheets, not entirely used to the experience of waking out of sleep. It felt a lot like when I'd woken up on the floor of that antique shop, coming out of a long dream that had only felt real while I was in it. 

I heard Ryley come out of his room, the door clicking closed quietly. A few moments later I heard hesitation in the hall, as if someone were outside my door. There was a quiet mumbling, a whispering just too low to hear through the wall. I stood and clicked the latch, peeping into the hall. As I did, Ryley looked up at me, surprised and embarrassed to be caught. I smiled lightly, wondering what was wrong. 

"I-" He started. "I was just going to ask if you wanted breakfast." He swallowed hard. I looked at him, wondering why he was so nervous. Of course, I was nervous, so I hardly had room to talk, but with my whirlpool of emotions I was impressed I hadn't fallen apart already. I'd assumed, as far as emotions went, he'd had a bit more practice controlling them. 

"Okay." I looked down at the extremely large, black shirt I was wearing as a nightgown. I moved the door in front of me a little more, trying to hide behind it. It was my  turn to blush as he also noticed my clothes, or lack thereof. He glanced away, seeming to understand.