Before He was Rosy Cheeks

when a person helps

Waking up in the hospital with his arms wrapped in gauze and his mother weeping by the foot of the bed was the second most terrible moment in the boy's life. He'd never seen his mother in a worse state, a trembling, tear soaked and stuttering state that would haunt him forever. Even when he'd cleared his throat to inform her of his waking, she couldn't stop her shaking hands as she stumbled over to wrap her scrawny arms around him.

The boy couldn't seem to gather the words to tell her how sorry he was and that seemed to be just fine with her. All she needed to know was that he was alive.

In the coming days, he found himself in a daze that he couldn't seem to see through and he didn't have the feeling in him to speak. They loaded him up with meds that made him nauseous and unable to sleep; anxious and malaise. Then he was brought home to a kitchen without knives and the door to his room was propped open by his desk chair at all times, his mother watching him like he was a zoo animal. Sometimes she helped (made) him sit in the couch so she could keep her eyes on him no matter what she was doing.

And the daily counseling began not long after, where he sat staring at a clock on the wall, counting the seconds until he could leave. The psychiatrist's voice bothered his ears and he didn't want to hear what he was saying anyway. His mother even came to the sessions to try and get him to speak, but found herself pouring out her troubles with alcohol abuse and the ache of her family's departure.

After a week and a half of the boy saying nothing, the two adults agreed that it wasn't working and the psychiatrist with the annoying voice recommended a new kind of therapy. One that included art.

That first day of therapy was very different for the boy. He walked into the room with dull brown eyes that had been searching so long for hope and instead found a lady with bright pink hair and a rainbow of paint all over her hands. She smiled polietly at him and gestured with a small arm towards a stool, with a wooden contraption he soon learned to be an easel in front of it. It held a blank canvas and little jars of paint in front of it.

Without a word the pink haired lady slipped a wooden board into his hand, placing his thumb into a hole and a paint brush in the other, then nodded to the white surface in front of him.

"Do me a favor, and just do whatever feels right." She said, smiling gently at him.

With furrowed brows, he looked up at her. "I don't know.. uh, how to do this." He mumbled, gesturing at the paints with the brush.

"I figured as much," she replied softly, her smile widening a bit. "But that's alright, it doesn't matter about technique. It matters about what appears on that canvas. It'll tell me more about how you're feeling then your words will."
The boy was still confused, but began dipping the brush into the jars, pulling out blue and black and white pigments and mixing them on the thing he learned to be a pallette, then swiping away at the surface. By the end of the session, his canvas was a mess of colors and hardly a recognizable figure, but he looked up, still feeling empty, to find the pink haired lady grinning at him.

"That's great, thank you for sharing with me." She spoke in her gentle voice.

She ushered him over towards the desk in the corner of her studio and opened a drawer. After digging around in it for a moment or too, she produced a wirebound sketchbook and a tin that had a picture of pencils on top of it, as well of a baggy filled with erasers and other things he didn't recognize. But he did see the pencil sharpener, and his eyes widened.

"I.. I don't think that's a.. um good idea.." He stuttered, "the sharpener.. I mean."

The lady tilted her head, then nodded. "I suppose not. I'll have to give it to your mom." She replied. "But here," she handed the collection of items to the boy. "I want you to draw in this whenever your mind gets muddy. Ive found that it helps clear me out of bad thoughts and helps me sort things out. And I really believe that it will help you too."

With that, she said her goodbyes and walked the boy out so she could hand the sharpener to his mother.

And when he got home, he threw the stuff in a drawer and closed it, knowing that it wouldn't work at all. Just like the painting hadn't.

_________

Bella's note: I'm terrible I'm sorry this summer is just awful. I plan on finishing this prequel and then working on "Before She" because ive found that writing two books at once makes me awful at procrastinating. There's only two more chapters left!

I hope you enjoyed and if you see any errors, let me know, as this is unedited. Also I hope your summer is going great!!

(Btw thank you for 600 followers, how nuts is that?!)

Much love,
xx