Those Emerald Eyes

Chapter 4: The Paintings

Allie spoke, mimicking Megan’s smug voice, enunciating every word. “Oh Devon, you’re sooo hot! Please kiss me, KISS MEEE!”

The corners of Skyla’s mouth twitched, trying to fight off a smile. Despite her efforts, a small giggle escaped. Allie never failed at her famous “Megan Impression.”

Skyla doubled up in laughter, clutching her stomach.

She sobered up for a second, trying to catch her breath, then burst out laughing again.

A couple seconds later, both of them were laughing hysterically like a bunch of crazy maniacs. It earned them some pretty weird looks from people nearby.

Skyla stopped laughing to grin at Allie. Moments like this were why Allie and she were best friends. Allie always understood her, like no one else did.

Of course though, Allie didn’t know everything about her. She didn’t know much, if anything about Skyla’s past. Truth is, no one knew, and Skyla had no intention of ever telling anyone. Some things were just better kept a secret.

After lunch, more periods passed: calculus, band practice, English. Not much else happened.

Skyla hurried briskly down the hall to her locker, getting the materials needed for the last class of the day, art.

Looking down the rows of mirrored surfaces, she finally reached it. Locker 192. Her thin fingers reached out and spun the locker combo, well rehearsed from a year of practice, and yanked open the shiny door. She picked up her art supplies, hurriedly, hoping to get to class as quickly as possible.

She looked forward to this class. She’d always loved art, and as a little girl, she remembered how her mother had painted.

Sometimes, her mother would let Skyla put her hand on the handle of the paintbrush as she painted. She would let Skyla sit on her lap; grip her firm fingers over Skyla’s small ones, guiding the paintbrush over the canvas. Whenever Skyla closed her eyes she remembered feeling the warmth of her mom’s hand, the love and reassurance all around her.

But then, she’d opened them again, and reality would hit her like a bucket of freezing cold water. 

She slammed her locker closed and came face to face with him. He was retrieving something from the locker right next to hers.

“Hey locker buddy,”

He looked at her, surprised.

“Oh hey,” He replied with a half-smile.

His emerald eyes stared into hers, causing Skyla’s steady gaze to falter a little.

He turned away.  “Uh, I should go.” His velvet voice suddenly turned icy.

Skyla blinked back in surprise, and before she could say anything, he was already down the hall.

She bit her lip, a little hurt and confused by his sudden change in tone.

Skyla walked through the door of the classroom looking down at her feet. She stepped over to one of the easels set up around the classroom. They were going to be painting. A slow grin spread across her face as she settled into her seat and picked up a paintbrush. 

She hardly even noticed Devon sitting halfway across the room. Only when she stood up again to get paint, did she see Devon, staring fixedly at his own blank canvas, as if debating on what to draw.

The heavy footsteps of Mr. Howell entered the room.

He was the school art teacher. Mr. Howell was old, a grandfatherly type. He’d been teaching in this school since the first day it opened, fifty something years ago. He probably should have retired by now, but he refused to. The majority of students at Bridgedale thought he was a real nutcase.

But Skyla liked Mr. Howell. He had this kind, understanding look to his face. He looked at his students the way a grandfather would look at his grandchildren. The corners of his eyes crinkled when he gave the occasional ghost of a smile. 

Not to say though, that Skyla didn’t think he was odd. He could be pretty darn confusing sometimes. Some of the things that come out of his mouth just don’t really make sense. But still.

“Alright kids,” the familiar throaty voice of Mr. Howell silenced the room. “Settle down.”

After a brief pause, he continued. “Art, is more than just being a pretty picture. A pretty picture is nice, but real art is so much more than that. Real art is a way of communication, a way of expression. Real art communicates a message, a feeling, or a story. Sometimes to paint a good picture, you have to explore the deep crevasses within you that you normally would be afraid to explore.”

He paused once again for a breath, then carried on. “Today, we will be exploring within ourselves. Finding those deepest, emotions; the emotions we normally run away from, we will capture today in art. We will portray ourselves, our feelings, abstractly. Captivate interest!”

With that, he motioned for the class to begin.

Skyla’s mind swelled with possible ideas. Deepest emotions… hm…

She took a deep breath, and let her mind wander back, a year ago from today.  Gingerly, she picked up the paint brush, and let the memories engulf her.

The period whizzed by.

The shrill of the school bell went off, signalling the end of the school day.

The classroom started emptying out. People got up, packed, and left, eager to leave the “educational environment” behind for the day; everyone except Skyla, and Devon.

She stayed seated for a little while, mentally exhausted from the concentration. Only now did she realize how cramped her body felt. She got up to stretch her sore muscles out and almost bumped into Mr. Howell. Skyla mumbled a quick apology, but he was so engrossed in her painting, he hardly seemed to notice.

“You’re feeling pain Skyla.” Mr. Howell’s hoarse voice said. Something in his tone told her that it wasn’t a question, but a statement.

Skyla inhaled sharply. She hadn’t expected this. What was she supposed to say when someone asked her what was behind her painting? Every good painting should have a story, and hers did… she just didn’t feel like letting the whole world know yet… or ever.  

He must have sensed her discomfort. Well, either that or he got tired of waiting for a response. In the silence that followed, Skyla stood there staring at the floor until she heard Mr. Howell’s footsteps proceed into the hall. 

She breathed a sigh of relief.

Skyla sensed another presence in the room, and remembered that Devon hadn’t left yet.

Her eyes took a little tour, examining the works of art around her. Devon’s was across the room, but the moment her eyes landed on it, one word rang loud and clear in her head. Death.

The canvas was filled with shades of grey, and black. There were splotches of red randomly splattered throughout. Blood, she realized with a silent horror. A cross sat in the center of the picture, slightly tilted to the side, imperfect. She squinted. In the top left hand corner of the painting, there was…what looked like... a gun.

Her mind was racing, incapable of stopping at one thought.

Then, she looked over at Devon.

His expression was like none she’d ever seen before. Expressionless, but it somehow managed to look absolutely terror-stricken. Following his transfixed gaze, Skyla noticed that he was staring, paralyzed, at her painting.

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Soryy that the last half of this chapter is a bit rushed... but do you like the suspense? ;) Please comment if you have any suggestions or  constructive critisicm!