The Gay Gatsby

Chapter 22: Chance Puts the Pain in Painting

My mind roared at me, telling me not to look. I knew if I gave the art even one tiny glance, it would destroy me. But I did it anyway and the, previously drying, stream of tears resurfaced with newfound fervor.

The subject of the painting had been fresh in my mind, having occurred mere hours before. It was two figures kissing; faces interlocked with a large palm cupping the other's cheek. I looked average in the painting; a stereotypical teenage boy. But Callaway looked mesmerizing. His hair was disheveled as usual and he looked slightly caught off guard. But his thin eyelashes had fluttered closed against pale, rounded features. His cheeks were glowing with a light pink and perfectly complemented the red of his sweater.

He wasn't beautiful, by any means. But he was truly fascinating.

And no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't forget.

I wanted so badly to tear at the thin canvas dangling in my frail grip, but I couldn't bring myself to. I didn't want to ruin the remnants of the perfect moment I was fortunate enough to experience.

So I just stared at it silently, tears trailing slowly across my cheeks. I didn't even have the energy to feel ashamed at that point, accepting the shameful reality of my wallowing.

I stared and reminisced whilst quietly crying; the epitome of teenage heartbreak.

I was so concentrated on my self-pity that I barely noticed the harsh sound of knocking at my door.

I snapped out of my heartbroken induced stupor in mere seconds. I scrambled to throw a sheet over all the damaged paintings. However, I put the last - still wet - painting on my desk, hoping it would be concealed by the shadow of the door.

I hastily wiped at my face in an attempt to conceal my evident distress. My hands soon became damp with tears as I called out hoarsely, "Come in!"

At the sound of my voice, a figure ambled into my bedroom. I watched as my father's tall shadow shuffled towards me, movements swift and casual. His warm smile was unsettling to me - I was almost annoyed that he was happy and I was not.

I could still feel the heavy prickling of moistness in my eyes and I used all my strength to prevent any tears from slipping. I didn't want to embarrass myself in front of my dad.

I gazed back at my hidden paintings and the one leaning on my desk, avoiding eye contact with my dad. I feared that if I allowed him to look into my features, he'd notice that something was wrong.

So I kept my vision unfocused; staring into the chipping paint of my bedroom wall.

"Chance, sorry I'm home so late. I tried calling but no reply - I assumed you were busy. I have a reason for my belatedness though," my dad spoke. His voice was so full of cheer that it pained me. "Come in the kitchen - I have a big surprise for you."

I couldn't help but feel terrified; a 'surprise' from my dad was the last thing I wanted to deal with that night. But with a sideways glance to his face, I found myself unable to decline. The proud look he wore made it impossible to say no.

"All right, Dad," I sighed, already regretful. "I'll be there in a minute."

My dad beamed at me with unimaginable brightness, scurrying to the kitchen.

I gave my canvas one last longing look before turning my back to it.

I needed to forget.

As promised, I clambered out of my bedroom in a minute, making my way to the kitchen as I had been told to. My mix of anger and sorrow only grew more profound as I walked to the kitchen, where I knew my father awaited.