Artistic License

Part IV: Colour

I dared not return to school the next day.

Arianna's voice offered me a small amount of comfort as I repeatedly copied a sentence onto lined paper with my left hand:

The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.

"I'll let the school know that you'll be back next week. Perhaps we were too hasty."

She rubbed my back motherly, speaking calmly and warmly. I nodded. There was a morbid determination in my movements as I scratched out countless rows of the same letters. Arianna observed my labours with a soundlessly begrudging approval, sitting across me on the edge of my cluttered bed.

"You don't have to work so hard; I don't want you to tire yourself out." Arianna's words of caution were filed away in a brain cabinet and dutifully ignored. I was set on this task, and every wasted moment was longer I would struggle. My lines were wobbly, and two hours of copying only showed miniscule change. In order to regain my sanity, I knew that the key was to regain my art first. Arianna needed only to watch and wait.

Hours passed, and my wrist began to burn, a pain that slowly set in like a summer day without sunscreen. I let the pencil fall slack in my grip while looking over my work. Very little improvement.

Folding the fourth paper up and sliding it into my folder, I gazed over towards where Twilight stood sentry to my alarm clock. It was around noon.

I slunk over to the dark window and twitched the blinds open. The midday sun glared in my face, angry and scorching. Willing it to be more forgiving, I pulled up the blinds with a slow flourish; glowing light filled the room with a much gentler warmth. As I momentarily peered out the window, I managed to force a tiny smile. The life from outside was breathtakingly wonderful, and I wished to be able to capture and splash it across a canvas.

This thought managed to dampen my smile back to the standard grimace, and I splayed myself across my bed in apathy. Too sore to work, too down to talk, I found solace in the medium that had suddenly become my kind companion: literature. Arianna's collection of Ray Bradbury had made its way into my bedroom, and after devouring Dandelion Wine and The Martian Chronicles, I had set my sights on Fahrenheit 451. My appetite for novels had increased drastically since the accident that had shattered my old world, and I was very aware of my sheer lack of literary background.

Before now, I had rarely even read anything outside of fashion magazines and school assignments. Bradbury's rich vocabulary forced upon me repeated frustrations, but the way he painted words across the page gave me visions of a perfect written magic.

The rich phrases and gorgeous scenes may not have been visible to others, but they were drawn across my inner easel. For the rest of the week, I alternated between reading and writing: the two activities that would become my temporary lifeline.

                                                          ✎

Monday came, and with it arrived a shimmering shard of hope. My week of hardcore writing hadn't truly gained me incredible skill, but I was confident in my ability to at least write my name and the due dates on the makeup work given to me.

The day was long and still boring in wait of my art class at its close. I tried to sketch circles and squares inside my notebook, ruefully herding my strokes into smooth curves and straight lines. When the time came to switch to sixth period, I unconsciously leapt out of my chair, showing more emotion that I had realised I felt.

I soared into art class on a wave of expectations, and although I lost some momentum by the end, I managed to create a messy likeness of Twilight under Mrs. Clairoux's guidance. The workmanship was a far from grand, but ah! It was progress, joyous progress, and the blackness of my heart momentarily recalled the meaning of colour. Letting frustration, expectation, and impatience go from my mind, I focused only on improving for someday.