The Runaway

Eighteen: Hidden

"Somebody tell me, oh
Won't you tell me?
Why I work so hard for you.."

Prince's POV:

Chanhassen, Minnesota. 2016.

Grace's Studio.

Lights adorned the walls, making a soft glow throughout the room. Her paintings were proudly hung, most finished but some others were a work in progress that she never got to finish. The room was inviting with pillows on the floor and a couch in the corner.

I hadn't seen my guardian Angel in a week. I didn't feel her anymore. I'd went to place flowers at her headstone every day like I always did, expecting her to be there. Expecting a sign. The wind blowing strong, smelling vanilla..something.

I began to think that me being able to see, hear and touch her, were a figment of my imagination. A hallucination due to stress and drug withdrawal.

Ghosts don't exist.

So in her studio, in front of ten people who were all in front of easels and canvases, the first Music Notes and Paintbrushes experience was about to take place. People were mumbling in astonishment about the paintings. Realistic portraits were her specialty.

I felt like I was going to throw up.

"Okay everyone! We're going to be painting simple today because I'm not an artist like Miss Ventura." I joked lightheartedly, making everyone laugh. "Is it okay if I put on some jazz or classical music?"

Erupts of "yes please!" sounded throughout the small space and I smiled to myself as I fumbled with the television to my left. After hearing the instrumental jazz, I turned back to the group of students, as I liked to call them and began to teach.

"Please pick up your biggest paintbrush and begin to paint the whole canvas a light green. Like this.."

Picking up my own canvas, I demonstrated with a small smile on my face, but my heart was heavy and I knew exactly why. Moving my brush from left to right, up and down, I subconsciously reminisced about our last time in the studio.

Guiding Grace's hands so she could paint again two hours before we went to sleep the night of her transition, was something I held onto during the times I missed her touch.

For the first time in two months, it was just us. We were alone. She had no restrictions. No tubing. No oxygen, even though she desperately needed it. I cared for her by myself that night and I cherished it.

Her last masterpiece was a collection of flowers and as my hands kept hers open and steady, I watched the paint fill the canvas with ease. Like she had never stopped.

It was placed in a frame with gold accents and hung in the middle of the wall, where it still sat, decades later.

It was the reference point for our first experience. I didn't need to look at it to know each step that was required for my students to successfully complete it. I knew by heart.

But for the purpose of reminiscing, while everyone painted under my direction, my head turned and I smiled at my signature underneath hers.

It was subtle, but it was there. So was the message on the back that could only be seen if the painting was taken down.

In English because it had become almost impossible for her to write in Italian. Her coordination wouldn't allow it anymore.