(Spin-off of Imaginary, more so specifically it's second book, Severity)
Cleo Vexer, a problematic teenage girl, is the sensation of your average pessimist and mediocre criminal. Still having to survive the rest of her senior year bitter and lonely...
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I paint the scenery of Winsley and I in the warm aesthetic of my living room, coffee cups in hand. Translucent shades of amber shines through the windows in a calming surge.
I can see Caslon's eyeing stare at my painting through my peripheral, but I don't act on it. My focus simply attains to the depth of the still image colored with memory, etched on the canvas.
"How are you so talented?" Caslon says in awe, a paintbrush loose in his hold.
A coy smile staggers its way to my face; I never did well with compliments. "It's a natural family gene. My mother was an art major in college, had a meticulous eye for the capturing the frames of beauty."
"I always loved the ideas of art." He mused, his hand steadily blotting a dark blue onto the emptier sections of his canvas. "The surreal pieces of things no other has imagined."
Winsley's words invade my mind as I drag along the conversation. I needed to cross some lines.
"Don't bargain for answers, Cleo." Winsley advised, a sparkly glint in her eyes. "If the both of you are dating now, demand and confront, question his character. You have the right to know."
"I'm surprised you chose art as an elective anyways." I started hesitantly. "I would've thought your parents weren't too fond of creativity."
Caslon inhales sharply. "Don't, Vex." He warns with a pointed look.
My head snaps; I look at him challengingly. "Don't what? Comment about the fact that your parents restrict you from your dream future?"
Caslon forced a tight lipped smile, practically straining the life out of him. "Just don't mention it again."
I bat my eyelashes innocently. "And why is that?"
I can feel Caslon's irritation radiate as I continue on with my painting.
He looks as if he was about to snap his paintbrush in half like a pencil. "You know why." Caslon grits his teeth.
"Do I?" I countered sarcastically. "Because I feel as though your previous answers were only justified to an extent, Allway."
"It's just what I'm destined to do." I could see right through the lie. "My parents care about me."
"Correction, they care about a male of the right blood taking care of the family business." I argued, my temper running thin.
"Well at least my parents still care about what I do." Caslon snaps, like a rubber band to put it shortly.
I gulp, feeling my eyes suddenly swell. My hand is frozen in midair, the paint on my paintbrush soaking eagerly as it sits inches away from my canvas. It takes me a moment to move; I slowly drop my hand and rest the brush aside.
In a swift motion, I grab my bag and stand from my stool.
"Cleo," My art teacher calls my name sternly as I reach the middle of the room.
I don't listen as I walk through the door and slam it on my way out. I didn't have to worry about any consequences; that would include my art teacher calling my parents.
But as Caslon said, they don't care about a thing I do.
