bleeding hearts [h.s]

six

I stared up at the colors.

The swirls, shapes, and lines.

The different layers of paint that created a grand raised texture against the canvas.

The museum had been so soundless, that I had been able to hear the echoes of my heels on the marble floors. The stark white walls, and bright white light seemed to allow the miraculously colored masterpieces to leap off the walls of the museum. I stood alone in front of the sea of colors. It was a Wednesday afternoon, the flurries of snow that had littered themselves through my hair had long since melted away. My coat draped over my arm and I had been holding the exhibit pamphlet tight in my hand. The flow of people had been few and far between. One or two school groups had gone from section to section as they toured for a field trip.

I had not seen Harry in over three weeks; correction, I had not dreamt of Harry in over three weeks. Strange to think that I would like to see him. He had this essence about him. This air of enchantment and charm, an aura that hung around him like a halo. He evoked this feeling in my chest--a warmth. A summer like feeling that bloomed in my chest like the rays of the sun that unfurled and spread across my limbs. Whenever I would wake up after having had seen him I would have the smell of citrus and pure summer stuck in my nose--until the smell of winter and hot coffee whisked it away. Summer. Bright and warm and wonderful.

I had not been sleeping--scratch that--I had been sleeping too much. I had not been dreaming. Every night for weeks, I would lay awake until I succumbed to my exhaustion. I prayed and willed to dream of the curly haired boy. I wanted to dream. I wanted to see him. Which was a ridiculous notion! He was a figment of my imagination. He was not real, and it made me seem like a mad woman to even admit that he made me happy. I found that I had been happier when I was asleep and dreaming than when I was awake and living. Maybe it was not Harry himself that made me happy; maybe it was the idea of someone like him. I loved Matt but he treated me with kid-gloves. With Harry, it was like I had never been sick and I was just a person, and regular simple twenty-year-old woman. How screwed up was it that I was more entranced by a literal man in my dreams than my own boyfriend? But that was the point of dreams, was it not? To have a reality that was better than the one you are living. I was worried, I supposed, that at some point Harry or the idea of Harry would turn into a nightmare.

A child cried out and it echoed off the walls. It took my immediate attention away from my thoughts as I had glazed back at the ornery child who was being reprimanded by his mother. I tightened my arms around myself and strolled along the lines of paintings. Matt had not been able to come with me that day. He was called away by some work event that was last minute. I had thought to call Danielle, but she had been busy with some of her classes. So here I was, strolling through the museum halls, alone. Cheaper admission prices, I guessed. I felt like I had been walking aimlessly--like I was looking for something, even if I hadn't been entirely sure what it could have been.

I discovered that I liked sculpture art. I liked the idea of something being made by someone's hands. All the time and work just to have created a simple statue--it fascinated me. I wish that I could be that talented--to be able to make something with my bare hands. I had taken up gardening over the last few weeks; well as much as I could garden in a small apartment. I had a small pot with violets by the window. I wanted to create life or watch something grow under my guidance. I struggled with the idea that I had never done anything on my own. I had spent almost all my life swimming and training, only to have nothing to show for it. I hadn't exactly been a record holder, but I had been a good teammate who had pulled their weight on the swim team. I was just a gear in a whole machine, never having stood alone.

Statues stood around me, frozen in place. I had always enjoyed Greek myths; actually myths in general. The idea that people passed lessons and history through stories intrigued me. Before there had been pen and paper, there was stories and the spoken word. If I have learned anything in the twenty years that I had been living, it is that stories lived in everyone and they are not easily forgotten--we chose the ones we told and hide the ones we don't want to share.

Harry is my story.

And I do not want to share him, not yet.

What if I shared the curly haired boy that had me wonderstruck, and he then disappeared from my dream landscape? I had read somewhere that if someone shares a story they had to let it go. If I shared the story of my dreams, I was afraid that I would have to let Harry go. I had known what it felt like to miss a part of myself, and I felt that if Harry disappeared from my dreams I would lose part of myself. I was not sure what I was feeling--why I had taken a liking to a boy who was nonexistent? Why did I long to spend time with him, even if it was only in my sleep state?

What had that meant for Matt and I?

I felt as if I was almost having an emotional affair. I was not though. Harry was not real. The amount of times I had told myself that was incredible. I figured if I kept saying it, I would eventually drop this obsession with the curly haired boy. He was a dream. Matt was reality. He was a dream. Harry was not here. Harry was not real. He was a dream. I felt like I was losing my mind. Maybe this equated to girls loving a fictional character--not that I was in love with Harry. I could not possibly be in love with Harry. The simple idea of it was absurd.

I tried to shake the notion for my head as I continued my stroll through the halls. I eyed the different art pieces, absorbed in their color and technique and overall just appreciating the beauty of everything. I had a hard time appreciating art when I was younger-- I found that, like many things, I enjoyed it now being older. I used to dislike museums and exhibits but here I was enjoying myself.

Reds and beiges caught my eye. I recognized it almost immediately. It was the art piece that was on the advertisement for the exhibit that had been in the newspaper. I flipped through the pamphlet in my hands and looked for the name or information on the artist. I abandoned the effort and approached the piece. It depicted a woman who was dressing in front of a mirror. The artist's technique resembles a Japanese style.

The artist used to paint and draw private moments in the lives of women and children. I observed the vulnerable stance of the woman in the piece, hunched over as she tied back her hair. Bare breasted and a white sheet spread across her lap as she lounged in a intricate chair. The background and foreground was draped in red hues.

Beautiful.

My eyes trailed to the golden plaque under the piece; The Coiffure Study.

Something tugged in my chest and I felt almost the sensation of a breeze graze the back of my neck. Like a ghost. It caused a shiver to trace its chilling fingers down my back. My nose filled with the smell of citrus and summer. Harry's green eyes flashed through my mind when I looked back at the plaque. Underneath the title is one name.

Mary Cassatt.

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Hello all,

Sorry this took so long! I finally have this story planned by chapter so how it is looking right now this story will have about thirty-five chapters. Please tell me what you all think, want to see happen, etc.

All the love,

L.