❦ WINNER OF THE RIVETING WRITING CONTEST ❦
OLIVER IS DYING
With only months left to live at just seventeen, Oliver spends his remaining days of endless tests and debilitating drugs in the St. Andrews paediatrics ward planning his impending funeral...
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I lather both sides of the flat paintbrush in byzantine blue and fill the upper half of the canvas in long, smooth strokes. I move my head slowly in wave motion to the music through my headphones—I Gave It All by Aquilo—as I paint, well, something.
That's what I love about art: there are no rules. Art is about breaking boundaries and letting creativity be the one to hold the brush. You could have an idea—a plan—in the beginning and finish with something completely different.
That's what's happening. What I planned is not turning out on the canvas.
I frown when I look back to my palette. I've run out of blue.
I turn towards my dirty cabinet where I dumped out all of the spare bedding to store my paint supplies.
I look up to see where I'm going, still wearing my intensive thinking face, and that's when I see him standing in the doorway.
My frown disappears and I feel my cheeks heat up.
I honestly hope my resting bitch face because I've run out of blue hasn't ruined my chances with Mr. Too-Gorgeous-Than-Humanly-Possible.
I swallow as I pull out my earbuds midway through the song's bridge section. "I, uh. I've run out of byzantine."
Nick frowns. "What?"
I blink. "I mean, hi. Hello. Um, Frankie's not here. I, uh, last saw her down in the garden."
And then I stupidly and awkwardly begin to give him directions as he stands there with a blank look on his face.
I turn my back to him and head towards the paint supply cabinet so I can stick my head in it and slam the door on it repeatedly.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
When I turn back with a bottle of byzantine blue, he's still standing there with his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
Well, Ollie, you've got a prime opportunity to get to know Mr. Too-Gorgeous-Than-Humanly-Possible, my Jiminy Cricket announces. You better not screw this up.
I think I may have already, Jiminy.
Positive thoughts, Ollie. Positive thoughts.
I roll my eyes to Nick still standing at the threshold of my room. "You can come in if you want."
There's a moment of hesitation from him that I can see in the corner of my eye as I carefully pour blue onto my palette.
I smile to myself when he finally walks in.
"What are you painting?" he asks.
I reach for my round brush from the brush jar on a small three-legged table next to the easel. "I don't know."
