invasato [h.s]

74: 'Flower'

My heart can be heard in my ears. I'm looking at the ground, trying to keep my composure.

I worked for this.

And Lord knows I deserve it.

"Grazie, grazie. Thank you." Mr. Bianchi speaks into a mic as the clapping dies down. "Hello, what an honour to be here." he clears his throat, stuttering for just a mere moment. "Uh—we at the Institution of Arts in Milan do not strive to mold and mend creative minds, but...instead encourage and...celebrate artists. Through the Individual Artist Program, we partnered with this lovely museum to showcase an artist that exceeded limitations." he says.

Keep breathing.

"Tonight, I'm thrilled to honor a young artist who has worked themselves to an extent that allowed them to create the masterpiece you'll be seeing in a few moments..."

Clapping.

I smile softly to myself for the first time tonight.

"I'm...more than proud of this individual. My words will never do enough justice. Please welcome, Miss Elaina Basset."

The curtains are drawn.

And suddenly, everything goes quiet.

I look out onto the crowd, seeing clapping hands and smiling faces—people who admire art in the way I do.

People who understand.

I step out, at the same time a red silk sheet is being pulled off of my canvas, and then the clapping intensifies.

I feel my heart pounding, and my eyes welling up. I just let out a small, disbelieving and honoured chuckle as my mouth turns up into a smile.

Bianchi hands me the microphone, stepping to the side and clapping as well.

I look out again, taking in the faces and the expressions. There's men, women, old and young. Sipping champagne and beholding positive reactions. The clapping doesn't stop as my eyes ride the wave of faces.

It wasn't until I looked at the back right corner of the room, though—when my heart felt like it stopped beating for a moment. The blood stopped flowing, the chambers malfunctioning, nothing being received nor given by the organ—just for a second. Because, there, in the back right corner...green eyes and dark hair adorned in a black suit and a straight face was clapping for me with the unmistakable group of familiar faces behind him.

Harry.

I don't know how long I was frozen for, but I couldn't make it known to my brain if I was truly seeing him or if I just was conjuring him there.

Green eyes were staring right back at me, if he really was there, he knows I can see him.

I suddenly feel like I'm projecting out of my body—but I'm not. I'm on stage.

I try my best to not seem like I've snapped out of reality and bring the microphone to my mouth, "Uhm—" I mumble, my sense of hearing suddenly returning full throttle as I shock myself by my amplified voice.

There's admiring laughter at what the onlookers think is just bashfulness but is really pure shock.

I blink, looking away and trying my best to pretend he isn't here.

"I—I really don't know where to begin." I look at my canvas, trying to focus. "This piece didn't come easily to me, truthfully. It took quite some time to perfect the meaning of it."

The crowd is quiet as they listen.

My painting is simple to the naked eye but complex to the mind.

You see a field of white lilly flowers that keep going and going. But, you look into the horizon and you see the flowers slowly beginning to wilt, then die all together as they reach the haunting depiction of a dead willow tree—a tree that at some point was lush and green, but has become eerily stripped of everything that made it beautiful to the eye which lacks introspection.