20 Seconds Of Pure Embarrassing Courage

~Change~

My anger started welling in me as the paint began to run low on my brush; I throw the brush towards the pottery rack over in the corner and listen as it clangs against the unpainted Tara kata pot. Small tears dot the corner of my eyes as I grab another brush not bothering to wet; I stick it on another random color, a royal purple, and fling it at the unknown piece going along with the guitar off the music.

We scream (We scream) we shout (We shout)
We are the fallen angels, we scream (We scream)
We shout, whoa-oh, whoa-oh-oh-ohh,
To those who sing alone, no need to feel this sorrow,
We scream (We scream) we shout whoa,
We are the fallen angels

Color by color I dunk my brush, no longer caring about mixing the colors, and sent the paint flying at canvas that was mounted to my studio wall. I watched as small amounts of gold and crimson mixed in with my forest green. I looked for a moment, admiring how the oddest of combinations can look so natural together.

Scream, shout, we are the fallen angels,
Scream, shout, whoa-oh, whoa-oh-oh-ohh
We scream (We scream) we shout (We shout)
We are the fallen angels, we scream (We scream)
We shout, whoa-oh, whoa-oh-oh-ohh,
To those who sing alone, no need to feel this sorrow,
We scream (We scream) we shout whoa,
We are the fallen angels

I set down my brush on the wooden table my grandpa had made me when I was younger, intending it to a Vanity only to be used as a center piece for my studio but neither the less he approved. I stare the forest green; I dunk my hand in the murky color, cupping the small circlets of color. I look at the paint then my seemingly mean less canvas then back to the pure paint. I felt the anger begin to boil inside of me and before I am aware I pull my right hand back send the paint at the center on my piece.

We scream, we shout, we are the fallen angels,
We scream, we shout, whoa-oh, whoa-oh-oh-ohh,
Whoa-oh-oh-ohh, we shout whoa, we are the fallen angels

The green hits the canvas in the middle, spreading out with small arms that radiate of the center. The pervious colors behind the green appear to branch out behind it; I see it immediately. I whip my green covered hand on the small white towel, that had other paint marks from pervious projects and grab the heavy duty can of forest green paint and lift it with both of my hands. I keep my left hand on the handle of the bucket while my right hand held the bottom, keeping it steady. I feel the anger once again and my instants take over; I fling the bucket forward and watch as the green hits the center. It sent small bits of paint all over my studio walls and floor. The green splat covered most the canvas and had small arms sticking out of the center.

Tossing the now empty bucket aside, I let out an aggravated sigh while running my left hand over the top of hair. I let my thumb fall to lips of my mouth and I began nibbling on my already dull nail; a childhood habit that seemed impossible to break.

"So I take it you won't be joining us to church?" A cold, harsh, cruising voice asked from behind me.

I spun around to face my mother who had her Auber perfectly curled and pulled so that it all fell on her back. She wore a white shirt with a black floral pattern on the front of it and black work pants paired with some high heels. For almost forty five she looked really good for her age; always kept her body nice, her hair the perfect shade, her French manicure in the best conditions. Her lips were pressed into a thin line showing that she was already in a mood and the fact that I was here first thing in the morning instead of getting ready for church only made her madder.

"Nope," I say popping the 'p'. I spin around and begin examining my piece trying to ignore the piercing stare in my back.

"Your cousins will be there," She adds trying to prosuiade me to come.