Author's Note: Be warned, basically nothing happens in this chapter. I apologize, but I needed to establish some things before progressing with the main conflict.
Chapter 22: Chance Puts the Pain in Painting
"The loneliest moment in someone's life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly."
- F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
Chance
I could feel my eyes blinking vigorously in an effort to restrain any tears that could fall as I began to scramble down the stairs of . . . Callaway's house.
I was aware that I was being stupid. Truly, I did. I had no right to be angry or sad; the reaction I had received had been expected. But that didn't make it hurt less.
Callaway didn't love me. He never would love me. And that's a fact I had to accept.
The short haired boy I had come to call my friend had simultaneously bettered me in unimaginable manners, but had also destroyed me.
My thoughts resembled the chaos of a war zone as I rushed through the looming shadows of the hallway. Horrifying scenarios were conjured in my head. The terrible scenes played in my mind like a film; a film where the main character never got a happy ending.
I sped to the door, mind absent. I hardly even noticed the small figure that found itself in my vision.
"Are you okay?"
I ignored the question, assuming that it wasn't directed towards me as I continued to attempt to open the door.
"Chance - Are you okay?"
I nearly jumped as the utterance of my name pierced the air. I turned my head in a rush, fearful of where the voice was coming from. Oddly, I was met with a familiar - yet alien - mop of dark ringlets.
Jasper stood in front of me - bag of potato chips in hand and a serious expression on his face.
I cleared my throat, attempting to conceal my distress as I answered his question. "I'm - I'm fine," I spluttered. "Thanks for asking."
"Sure." Jasper frowned at me with clear doubt.
I gave him a curt nod paired with an artificial smile before turning away. My fingers met the cool smoothness of the door knob as Jasper's voice piped up once again.
"My brother - he can say some pretty stupid things," his voice intoned solemnly. "Don't take it too personally."
I could almost laugh at that. Too personally? I think that my unreciprocated love crossed that boundary a while ago.
I looked back at Jasper for a moment, trying for a smile, before making my way out of the Lawson house and into the pouring rain of the thunderstorm churning outside. I stared out into the black bass of the night sky, knowing that I would have to trek through the damp roads all the way back to my house.
Alone.
At night.
During a thunderstorm.
With a broken heart.
God.
Why did the world hate me?
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My fingers were tingling with chills and my wet hair clung to forehead as I opened the door to my house. I slid my damp jacket off with an unusual clumsiness and speed. I wanted nothing more than to escape to my room and sleep forever, despite the early hour.
As I unwrapped the haggard scarf from my neck, I couldn't help but notice the silence that filled my house. It was Thursday, thus my dad didn't have school. But my home was barren of the usual noise that followed his presence.
I ignored my uneasiness, undoing my sopping sneakers and tugging them off my feet. I stuck my backpack in the closet before rushing to my bedroom.
The familiar environment was comforting. My bed was calling to me - urging me to just ball up and lay unconscious, in means of forgetting all my worries. And though the call of my bed was strong, the call of the blank canvas was stronger.
I didn't even spare my bed a second glance, instead ambling towards the easel set up in the corner of my bedroom. I picked haphazard paintbrushes and paints, not caring what I used. All I wanted was to do something; to find some type of distraction.
I wanted to forget.
So I drowned myself in the vibrant hues of paint.
I painted and it was chaotic. I was spewing liquid across the canvas randomly in hopes of creating as quickly as possible. But the supposedly accidental swirls looked too much like comforting green eyes. And the aimless lines bore a resemblance too close to the curve of familiar lips.
I dragged my nails across the canvas in anger, piercing the material and leaving gashes. I was ruining it. The pads of my fingers became damp with a thick layer of paint. I hardly cared as I ruined the piece I had been working on for an hour. I felt powerful as I destroyed what I had created, I felt a sense of balance. The sound of the thunderstorm palpitating outside my window only prompted me more.
I had created my paintings with ease and I had just as easily ruined them. It was painful, but no doubt, a distraction.
So I continued to paint. Brushes slapped against the pale white of canvas with violent force in an attempt to be arbitrary. Paint splattered against my clothing and against the floor, but I didn't care.
I painted; I teared. I created; I ruined. It was an endless cycle of turmoil and clamor.
I was on my fifth canvas when I perceived the feeling of dampness on my face. I dabbed a finger onto my cheeks in investigation, knowing that it was too thin to be paint. I lowered my hand and saw my fingers shine with clear liquid. I assumed sweat, but a glance in the mirror demonstrated otherwise. My eyes stared back at me with a distinct redness.
I had been crying - sobbing really. And I wasn't surprised.
My gaze slid across the ravaged canvases before me. I had tried for abstract, but I was never good at that. Ever since I was young, I drew from real life. My art focused on concrete objects; things that could be touched or seen. It focused on realities.
And it seems that my reality was Callaway.
The paintings stared back at me, all of them in a circle by my feet. They all showcased Callaway as he truly was. The first canvas featured a frown; careful and calculated, for it graced his face almost perpetually. Another canvas was of frail hands, clasped around the glass of an almost empty bottle. My gaze turned to a canvas with strokes of dark paint. Seemingly random swirls interconnected to conjure a mess of curly hair. It should've been easy to paint, just dragging the brush across in natural motions. But I put so much time into perfecting each and every strand, that it hadn't taken three times the time than it should've. That too, I had destroyed. The last painting I had ruined was of angry green eyes. They stared back at me with so much intensity that I could hardly bear to look at it, even with the rips still present across it.
And then there was the painting that I had just completed, the one that I held within my rough grasp. I hadn't yet ravaged that one. I couldn't bring myself to, for it was too painful.
My mind roared at me, telling me not to look. I knew if I gave the art even one tiny glance, it would destroy me. But I did it anyway and the, previously drying, stream of tears resurfaced with newfound fervor.
The subject of the painting had been fresh in my mind, having occurred mere hours before. It was two figures kissing; faces interlocked with a large palm cupping the other's cheek. I looked average in the painting; a stereotypical teenage boy. But Callaway looked mesmerizing. His hair was disheveled as usual and he looked slightly caught off guard. But his thin eyelashes had fluttered closed against pale, rounded features. His cheeks were glowing with a light pink and perfectly complemented the red of his sweater.
He wasn't beautiful, by any means. But he was truly fascinating.
And no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't forget.
I wanted so badly to tear at the thin canvas dangling in my frail grip, but I couldn't bring myself to. I didn't want to ruin the remnants of the perfect moment I was fortunate enough to experience.
So I just stared at it silently, tears trailing slowly across my cheeks. I didn't even have the energy to feel ashamed at that point, accepting the shameful reality of my wallowing.
I stared and reminisced whilst quietly crying; the epitome of teenage heartbreak.
I was so concentrated on my self-pity that I barely noticed the harsh sound of knocking at my door.
I snapped out of my heartbroken induced stupor in mere seconds. I scrambled to throw a sheet over all the damaged paintings. However, I put the last - still wet - painting on my desk, hoping it would be concealed by the shadow of the door.
I hastily wiped at my face in an attempt to conceal my evident distress. My hands soon became damp with tears as I called out hoarsely, "Come in!"
At the sound of my voice, a figure ambled into my bedroom. I watched as my father's tall shadow shuffled towards me, movements swift and casual. His warm smile was unsettling to me - I was almost annoyed that he was happy and I was not.
I could still feel the heavy prickling of moistness in my eyes and I used all my strength to prevent any tears from slipping. I didn't want to embarrass myself in front of my dad.
I gazed back at my hidden paintings and the one leaning on my desk, avoiding eye contact with my dad. I feared that if I allowed him to look into my features, he'd notice that something was wrong.
So I kept my vision unfocused; staring into the chipping paint of my bedroom wall.
"Chance, sorry I'm home so late. I tried calling but no reply - I assumed you were busy. I have a reason for my belatedness though," my dad spoke. His voice was so full of cheer that it pained me. "Come in the kitchen - I have a big surprise for you."
I couldn't help but feel terrified; a 'surprise' from my dad was the last thing I wanted to deal with that night. But with a sideways glance to his face, I found myself unable to decline. The proud look he wore made it impossible to say no.
"All right, Dad," I sighed, already regretful. "I'll be there in a minute."
My dad beamed at me with unimaginable brightness, scurrying to the kitchen.
I gave my canvas one last longing look before turning my back to it.
I needed to forget.
As promised, I clambered out of my bedroom in a minute, making my way to the kitchen as I had been told to. My mix of anger and sorrow only grew more profound as I walked to the kitchen, where I knew my father awaited.
My thoughts swarmed within me, throwing around the possibilities as to what my father's surprise was.
I had no idea what to expect as I shuffled into the tile of the kitchen.
But a scarce piece of paper wasn't it.
As my dad slid the sheet of thin material in my hand, I wondered what was so important about it that it would cause my father this much cheer.
My gaze flickered to the colorful ink of the paper now in my grasp. And as I read the words inscribed on the page, I finally understood.
"Dear Chance Andrews,
The New York University is delighted to confirm your acceptance into the Bachelor's of Fine Arts program (B.F.A.)..."
My dad peered at me through his glasses, soft smile gracing his face. "Chance - I've been thinking a lot and . . . I want you to go."
My mind was barren as I stared up at my dad. I searched my thoughts, trying to grasp onto something - anything.
But it was all too much; a turmoil ripped between art school and Callaway.
My dad squinted at me, compelling me to do something.
I wet my lips, mouth falling open as I prepared to finally speak.
But I was interrupted by a knock at the door.
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Callaway
You: The truth is that I've never loved anybody.
You: I've never wanted to love anybody.
You: But I want to love you.
I could do no more than breathe as I sat in the frigid darkness of my room. The admissions I had sent flared back at me through the screen of my phone.
I pulled a cigarette to my lips, breathing it in deeply. I watched as the smoke mingled with the cool air of my room, swirling in incoherent shapes. My parents would despise the heavy fragrance that would soon taint their house, but as usual, I didn't care.
I distanced myself from my thoughts as I perceived a flash on my bedside table, lighting up the dark room before me. My gaze turned to a small black device lying there, face up. It was an older model, unsurprising for I knew the owner was unfortunate enough to be unable to purchase a better one. It was a compact thing. It was boxy, ugly and familiar.
It was Chance's phone.
My heart grew still in my chest, my priorly heavy breaths halted and my mind grew eerily silent.
He left his fucking phone? What kind of a teenager does that?
I was hardly a person of faith, however, in that very moment, I was certain that God hated me with every fiber of his celestial being.
I was wholly sure that that morose day, God scowled upon the shameful race that was humanity and said to himself, "You know who's life I'm gonna fuck up today? That little shit 'Callaway Lawson.'"
Hence the imminent denouement of my day.
I was fed up with technology. I even began to contemplate the advantages of living as the Amish did. Maybe then I could transmit Chance a message via pigeon. Being Amish wouldn't be wholly terrible; horses were badass. Though I didn't believe that it would be enjoyable to live without the wonders of the internet.
Internet....
I could attempt to email Chance.
But Chance's email address being unbeknownst to me. And most individuals rarely even utilized the almost foreign concept of emails anymore.
Thus, that idea was rapidly relinquished.
And so once again that day, I found myself - lamentably - seeking aid from one of the least likely of sources: my brother.
"Jasper," I screeched. My voice echoed through the dim light of my room with unshielded anger.
I listened to the silence of my house, awaiting a response from my brother. No one else was present within the house and I was certain that he was still awake.
I called once more, "Jasper - get the fuck up here."
Unsurprisingly, my phone lit up in my palm, buzzing subtly.
Jasper the unfriendly ghost: What's wrong?
Another buzz.
Jasper the unfriendly ghost: Don't worry I'm coming
I sat, frustration overriding my brain as I stared at the pale white of my doorframe, waiting for it to creak with movement.
In a moment, the door swung open, revealing the small figure that I knew was my sibling.
"I was watching Harry Potter and it was getting so exciting Harry was about to kick Voldemort's ass. You can come join me if you - " My brother stopped, staring at me. He pointed to my hand. "Wait . . . are you smoking? In the house?"
I ignored his question and he shuffled to where I sat in my bed, ungraciously tumbling beside me.
"Mom's gonna kill you, you know," Jasper breathed. He reeked distinctly of popcorn and rum; a horrendously disconcerting mix of fragrances. "I thought you stopped smoking."
I didn't look at my brother, muttering, "Yes, but then I relapsed." I smiled cynically. "I tend to do that."
Jasper frowned deeply, eyes flickering across my face. "You scare me, Callaway."
I didn't know how to retort that, thus I left the remark hanging in the silence. I turned back to my cigarette with a type of finality.
My brother sighed. "Why did you call me up here?"
I ignored my unease, instead pushing to answer the question and actually attain help for my predicament.
I explained with sharp seriousness, "I was trying to send a text..."
My brother looked at me sideways, questioning, "Who are you even texting?"
I glared at him.
He beamed at me knowingly. "Yes, carry on. You were at the part where you confessed your undying love to Chance."
I couldn't refrain from rolling my eyes. "But he left his cellular device here and I have no alternate means of contacting him."
Jasper wriggled against the blankets of my bed, rolling onto his stomach. I made no movement to stop him as he inched towards the small surface of my nightstand. An idle hand clasped the device and he picked it up, sliding it through his fingers.
"Did you stalk the contents of his phone yet?" My brother grinned, already opening the phone and swiping through things that were in no way his business. "He should've put a passcode . . ."
With a flick of his wrists, Jasper's eyes gaped extensibly. He murmured, words almost lost within his exhaling breath. "Damn."
My gaze flashed to my brother as he gaped at the phone in his palm. "What is it?" I questioned, concerned.
My brother shook his head at me, eyes wide. "You didn't tell me he was an artist - look at this shit! It's amazing."
Artist?
I gave my sibling a dubious look. "I - I didn't even know myself."
"You guys are in love and you don't even know about his wicked art skills? Wow." My brother chided me jokingly.
I surveyed as Jasper resumed his fervent swiping, the flicker of the screen illuminated his focused features as we sat - still in the dark.
Chance was an artist?
The concept shouldn't have confounded me, though it did. It was such a minute fact; a mere sliver of glass in the stained art that was Chance. Even so, it seemed tortuously important.
Chance had been acquainted with the uttermost profound pieces of my past; he knew everything one could possibly know about me.
And yet, he kept things from me.
Things as petty as a penchant for fine arts.
The progression of my thoughts raised a precarious question
Did he not trust me?
This inquiry led to one, perilous fear.
What else had he kept from me?
"Whoa dude - look at this!" Jasper spoke, shocked as he ripped me from my thoughts.
If I was being completely candid, I was expecting explicit pornographic art. But what I saw before me was not what I presupposed.
I stared at the minuscule screen that Jasper was prodding towards my face.
The painting was ostensibly watercolor. The canvas was tinted with vivacious blurs of color, intertwining with prodigious elegance. The paint congregated with short strokes, swirling to create something; a portrait. The figure was constructed with evident care: the seemingly, random splatters frame the face perfectly, completing the features with immaculate harmony My gaze swept across the screen, being drawn to the bright, mossy eyes of the figure in the picture.
It was a boy.
A boy I knew far too well.
"That's you, right?" My brother inquired, perpetually waving the device in my face. "It's beautiful - Holy shit." Jasper stared at me with incredulity. "You didn't say he was this in love with you."
"I believe that is me, yes." I peered at the painting, in fervid interest. "I didn't know it was this bad."
"This bad? Callaway - this isn't a bad thing," Jasper explained, voice brimming with force. "He loves you."
I gave my brother a pained look, though it was probably hidden in the thick obscurity. "I know - and I want to love him."
"Tell him that."
"I tried to." I bellowed, voice echoing through the room.
Realization burst onto Jasper's face. Eyebrows raised, he pointed doltishly between the phone within my grasp and the phone still within his grip. "You sent a text to Chance, right?"
I nodded sluggishly, annoyed with my brother's perpetual stream of questions.
"And he left his phone?"
I nodded once more.
"Where we just found his secret painting of you?"
I grunted in agreement, vexed with my brother's futile queries.
Jasper laughed cynically at me. "Your life is basically a shitty rom-com."
I shook my head as he laughed, adding on, "But more gay."
My brother grinned at me. "Yes, definitely more gay."
I watched as the smile slipped from my siblings lips in the dim light of the room. I gave one more glance to the painting still illuminated upon Chance's phone, sighing to myself.
"So are you either gonna watch Harry Potter with me or wallow?" Jasper questioned, serious.
"The later."
My brother nodded with comprehension. "Well if you need anything - anything at all - you know where to find me."
I watched my brother leave the room, mind growing absent as I was left in solitude.
I felt disoriented; my finite reservoir of options was running thin. Having lost the choice to text or call Chance, I had little left I could do.
I couldn't help but think: Where do I go from here?
And the only I answer I could conjure was:
To hell.
And hell could mean many things to various individuals; violence, death, the gays. Some might even constitute homework as hell.
But as I sat in the ominous obscurity of my bedroom, I knew what it the term meant to me. My hell was an entirely contrasting breed - my hell was not entirely malevolent.
And apparently, I was a rather masochistic person for I went out of my way to go to my hell that night.
That night, I found myself face to face with the thing I feared the most - the thing that could bring about my impending eradication. The thing I knew could be the death of me.
The thing I knew I had to face.
And with that in mind, I knocked upon the door before me, small hand rapping against the cool wood.
And I waited for my hell.
A hell that hid behind blond hair, blue eyes, kindness and most importantly, love.
A hell that could be none other than Chance.
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