Our Blank Canvas

Chapter One

Here's a brand new story for you! This is a project of my own and I really hope you all like it!!

Felix

I've been focused on my watercolor paintings for so long that I don't notice the yellow bug drive into town. I don't notice my friends posting all over their social media that she's back. I don't notice that I can feel my heart tightening every time I think about her.

Or maybe I do, and I just don't want to admit it. I'm too stubborn for that. I focus on the task at hand. Right. Art commissions, must focus. People pay me to paint their dearest memories, and I can't allow my head to be polluted when I'm supposed to be focusing on this.

I drag the paintbrush over the given spot on my canvas, a sky blue line of watercolor following each stroke. It's beginning to take form - and I can see it doesn't look like the forest situation I want it to look like. Not the one from the photo. I glance between both and furrow my brows. Stepping back, I observe the canvas and take a heavy breath, chewing on my wrist as a strangled groan escapes my lips.

I know this place. I got too distracted. I thought about her. I hate her. Red. Red. I see red. My hands ball into fists, my eyes fill with stinging, painful tears, and I grab the canvas, fingertips white as they hold it with some wave of strength, sending it flying across the room.

I can feel my mouth say words. I don't know what they are. Some kinds of blurs of curses and apologies. Upon impact, the canvas is ripped and broken, all of my work from last night and this morning and those three energy drinks in vain. I swallow a hard lump and close my eyes.

Count to ten, Félix, I tell myself. That's what my therapist says I should do when I feel this blinding sense of rage.

One.
It's going okay.

Two.
That's it.

Three.
Keep going.

Four.
"I told you to close your eyes, Marinette, keep them closed!"

Five.
"Why, Félix?? Are you planning to murder me out here or something?"

No. No, no, no, I failed.

My eyes open and suddenly I'm on the floor. My knees are to my chest and I can feel those tears that were in my eyes dripping down my neck, creating a pool of dampness on my mock.

That's it, I can't stay in this place. Not while she's here.

"You're going out," I spit at the canvas, grabbing it in one hand while I walk out of the room and to my Jeep in the driveway. My footsteps are heavy, and I can feel the floorboards creaking under them, but I couldn't care any less. I shove the painting in the back seat, and get in the front, slamming the door shut behind me. Before I can think any more thoughts, I'm speeding down the street, ten miles over the speed limit, tears stil stinging my eyes, threatening to fall. And when I see the dumpster, I know that's where this piece of junk needs to be. Garbage. Thrown out with every other memory of her that I have.

But when I'm standing next to the dumpster, the painting in my hands, ripped to shreds, a voice comes that I haven't been expecting. My eyes close in disbelief, refusing to turn around. My fists hold onto that stupid painting. Stupid memories. I want to forget them. I want to get away from here. But I can't. My mother's been counting on me to help her move. My family is here. And as much as past ties make me want to leave and never look back, I refuse to leave my mother.

"Félix?" a voice asks, and it sends chills down my spine. Please, let this all be a nightmare. It has to be. I hate you. I hate her. I hate this. I turn around, despite every nerve in my body telling me to run away.

And just like it started, I can feel my body grow hot. Weak. I try to tear away my gaze but I can't, because her beauty pulls me in the same way it did the first time we met.

I wish she wasn't so beautiful.
I wish the curls in her hair would go away.
I wish her eyes were drained of their color. That
bright, blue sapphire color that makes my
stomach churn.
I just wish that I could resist her.

"Marinette," I say under my breath, the name tasting too sweet in my mouth. It tastes like lemonade with sugar added to it because it wasn't sweet enough. The way she liked it. It tastes like coffee in the mornings, with five cubes and mug half filled with cream the way she liked it.

I wonder if she still likes her coffee like that.
I see her foot shuffle forward, and I find my own moving back. It feels like the world is closing in on me as she closes in on me. I don't know if it's because I'm terrified, or if it's because she used to be my world.

Could be a mixture of both.

"It's been so long since I last saw you," she says, her voice silky and smooth like it always was.

I remember when that same voice would say mine like it was the most beautiful thing to ever cross her pink, luscious lips. The same lips that I found myself attached to, almost every moment we were together.
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out for a long time. When I realize that my mouth is dry, I close it again, looking away from her eyes. Those eyes that pull me in like the ocean's tide. So much life fills them. I wonder if it's because she sees me again, or if it's because being away from me has filled them again. I wonder if there's another guy that fills her eyes with so much awe.

I finally find the ability to speak. "I don't see how that has anything to do with me," I say. I can tell my words shock her. Her lips have parted, and her eyes gain that puppy dog look that she does so well. It doesn't work anymore. I don't feel remorse at all. She let go of me first. I look down at the canvas still in my hand and I catch a glimpse of that forest scene.

No, no, no, Félix, you can't cry now. Not here. Not in front of her.

I rip my gaze away from the canvas and drop it to the ground instead. I don't have the heart to throw it away. Maybe I can paint over it. Maybe I can glue it back together. Before I can think of anything else, I'm walking away. My feet carry me away from the dumpster, away from the painting, away from my old life. Tears cloud my vision, and I pray she doesn't see where I'm going. I get in the car. I can hear the slam of the door echoing in my ears, and it's deafening. I flinch, and click my belt into place. I won't look back. I refuse. But looking in the rearview mirror, I see her face. My chest heaves with this heaviness that feels too much to handle.

As I hear the skid of tires against the pavement, I keep trying to convince myself that I'm doing the right thing. She ran away from me first.

So I'll run away from her now.