Painter of the Past

01

I liked painting.

I decided to give up my career, money— just everything when I saw her covered on white sheet, lifeless.

In my mind, I left a chuckle. What was that moment?

Right, it was sunny yet the breeze was felt. My parents had an out of the city trip. Sound of trees swaying and birds chirping. I can smell the gust of the river.

"Kuya, what's that?" My little brother asked with excitement in his eyes. He was intrigued with the materials I was preparing.

I enumerated all the materials I'm preparing. "Kuya will paint the scenery. Do you want to help?"

"Yes!" He smiled so big, his eyes shone light

I handed him a small canvas and a brush. Together, we painted the scenery. The lake, the trees, the birds, the sun, and the breeze. It was a beautiful day.

But life is unpredictable. The next hour, my little brother drowned.

It was my fault.

I kept on blaming myself.

"Pastischo, you let your brother drown!"

"Did I really let him drown?" I asked myself. Hands on my hair, gripping it.

He was too helpless. He was just a kid!

"You should be the one in your brother's position!" My mom shouted as my dad was carrying my unresponsive brother. "You're a curse! Everything is a curse about you!"

I didn't even hear what my mom was saying. It was my little brother's voice in my head.

"Kuya! After you paint, can you draw me swimming?"

No... If only I knew that I came along with you.

"Please, kuya! Or just join me?"

But I decided to draw him, instead. Painting is my passion. It was my everything. It was all I had.

Not until the river flashes its wildness. Water came along the streams, it happened so fast. The water on my feet, in a blink, was already on my neck.

My parents rushed him to the hospital, but it was too late. He passed away.

The world stopped. I couldn't paint anymore. I couldn't find the joy in life. I lost my purpose.

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months. I isolated myself from everyone. Until one day, I saw her, Rye. She was the light in my darkness. She brought me back to painting, and I finally found my purpose again. Rye was my…

Rye...

Rye?

When my eyes moved from her position, all I saw was dripping red. Long seconds before I picked up— she was bathing in blood.

Sound of ambulance, grievance, crying, no thoughts. Just her.

Now, she was lying on the hospital bed, covered in white sheet, lifeless.

Remember that painting was my everything? Rye became my world. She colored my lifeless, black and white canvas. Rye helped me to reach the stars, to become one with my drawings.

I was devastated. I didn't know what to do. I felt like I had lost everything all over again. But then, I remembered something Rye had told me: "Painting is not just about creating beautiful images. It's about capturing memories and keeping them alive."

So I picked up my paintbrush and started painting Rye. I painted her smile, her eyes, and her hair. I painted everything I could remember about her. And as I painted, I felt a sense of peace come over me. I knew that I was keeping Rye's memory alive, and that was all that mattered.

When I finished painting, I looked at the portrait and realized that it wasn't Rye at all. It was of my little brother.

I had been so grief-stricken that I had painted the wrong person. I had been so focused on keeping Rye's memory alive that I had forgotten about my own brother.

I felt a wave of guilt wash over me. I had been so caught up in my own pain that I had neglected the pain of others.

I knew that I had to make things right. I had to go back to the hospital and paint my little brother's portrait. I had to give him the proper goodbye that he deserved.

But when I got to the hospital, I found out that my little brother had died ten years ago.

I was devastated. I didn't know what to do. I felt like I had lost everything all over again.

But then, I heard a voice.

"It's okay," the voice said. "You're not alone."

I turned around and saw an angel standing in front of me. She had long, flowing hair and kind eyes.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"I'm like you,"  the angel said. "I am here to help you."

The angel  took my hand and led me to my little brother's grave. We stood there for a long time, and told me stories about my little brother. She told me about his first day of school, his first bike ride, and his first kiss.

As the angel talked, I started to feel better. I started to remember the good times I had with my little brother. I started to realize that he was never really gone. He would always be with me in my heart.

"Thank you," I said. "You've helped me more than you know."

"You're welcome," the angel said. "Now, it's time for you to go."

"But wait, who are you?" I became intrigued.

"I'm like you. But you can call me Mervcy… Mervcy Chroni."

Mervcy kissed me on the forehead, and then it disappeared.

I stood there for a long time, looking at my little brother's grave. I knew that I would never forget him. And I knew that I would always be grateful to Mervcy for helping me to heal.

I picked up my paintbrush and started painting again. I painted the people I had lost, and I painted the people I loved. I painted the past, and I painted the future. I painted anything and everything that came to mind.

Painting became my therapy. It was a way for me to express my emotions, and it was a way for me to connect with the world around me.

I became known as the "Painter of the Past". People would come to me and ask me to paint their loved ones. It was a way for them to cope with their loss, and it was a way for me to keep their memories alive.

I realized that painting was not just a hobby. It was a way of healing. It was a way of remembering. It was a way of connecting with the past.

It was a way of finding peace.

To my little brother, I missed you.

To my love, Rye, I loved you.

To painting, thank you.