My heart succumbed to the urge to let go.
I could see a lady giving one of my paintings a scrutinizing gaze.
I didn't like it.
Trying to sound as innocent and harmless as possible, trying to sound polite and like a silly little girl, I asked her, "Hi! Which painting has caught your eye?"
The lady turned to me and pointed at my second last painting.
It was of a parrot in a cage. It could see the world ending around it. It looked into the eyes of the viewers, and his eyes weren't sad or angry.
It was happy. The painting wasn't sad.
It was tragic.
It was one of the saddest drawings I'd ever drawn.
The parrot's eyes had a twinkling shine. Its wings were open but it wasn't trying to break the cage.
"Why is it happy?" The lady asked. "Why isn't it trying to break the cage?"
I gave the lady a stare. I was expecting that question but I wasn't sure how to tell her that.
How do you explain someone something so messed up?
"It's been trapped in a cage for years. It's happy because now since the world is ending, it will be free. It wants so desperately to be free that he would rather die if it would mean that he'd get his freedom."
The lady stared at me for a moment before saying, "Oh,"
I knew what she was thinking. It was something everyone was thinking about. They either thought it wasn't my idea or they thought I was screwed up in the head.
She walked away to another person's paintings and I sighted. I was trying to hold in all the grief. I wanted to be with Reece. I wanted to hold him as life left his body. But I knew I wouldn't be able to watch. And he wanted me to attend the exhibition. He wanted me to grab this opportunity. And I wanted to honor his wish.
It had been seven months since Reece had told me about his condition.
He was still alive, but only barely.
The doctors had told us that he would give out any moment, any day now.
He was fighting it, but he was playing a losing game.
If I had a paintbrush and a canvas, I would've painted something even more horrifying. Even more tragic. Even more sad. A painting that would put all my other ones to shame.
I didn't have a canvas but I had a pen and paper.
I closed my eyes. My thoughts were mixed. They made no sense. For the first time in a while, I couldn't write. Words were for me. And when words failed for me, paints prevailed.
But even painting wasn't coming to me. My hands were shaking. I was on the edge of having a mental breakdown.
My mom stood beside me with a hand on my shoulder.
She was looking at my paintings and I knew what she was thinking. She was wondering how she hadn't seen through me sooner. She was wondering why it had taken her so long to realize that her daughter didn't paint tragedy because of her genes.
She could see that her daughter was actually a little messed up in the head. She could see that her daughter was somewhat psycho, depressed, and deranged.
I didn't like her gaze.
I didn't like how pitifully she looked at me.
She knew about Reece dying. Yet, as I stood there, wanting nothing more than comfort, she simply stayed in her place, smiling to everyone, pretending enough for the both of us.
YOU ARE READING
The Fourth Boy
Romance"A thanks to all my tears Who were always there in my darkest times when I was alone." This book is not about my pathetic pitied self. Perhaps that's all they'll ever see me as, perhaps they'll always assume that I was the victim. Perhaps this will...
