Our Fantasy

Blur

  I stroked the paintbrush against the plain white canvas, painting a monotonous black sky. Sprinkling it with white dots using a toothbrush, I continued to steadily paint out a beautiful scenery with dark, almost black colours - dark blue, dark violet, dark red.

The door slammed.

I dropped my paintbrush, running to the door. "Mum?"

She looked up, smiling warmly at me. "Would appreciate a bit of help with the groceries, Aora."

I smiled in return, taking the grocery bags from her. "How was work today?"

Mother sighed, sitting back on the armchair. "It was... alright, Aora. How about school?" I looked at her, wanting to pursue the topic of work, but stopped myself. If my mother didn't want to talk about it, I wouldn't press her. She's been through enough already.

Placing the cartons of milk she had bought onto the kitchen table, I averted my eyes from her gaze. "Not too bad, either." I whispered, struggling to push down the pain that always resurfaced at the thought of school and its monstrosity of work Dad always used to help me overcome.

My mother's eyes flicked over to my half-finished painting, flickering with sadness before she gave a forced smile. "That's a nice painting, Aora. Are you going to complete it?"

I sucked in my breath, then forced myself to release it. "Maybe." My reply was short, although I didn't mean it to sound so curt when it came out. Since Dad had... passed away, I hadn't been able to finish any of my artworks - it was always left half-done or unfinished.

My eyes were still trained on the groceries I was unpacking as my mother heaved a sigh and moved to her bedroom to take a shower.

The muted quietness of the living room was heavy, pressing down on me until I felt like I was being suffocated. I moved back towards my painting, sitting on the wooden peg chair my father had designed. Bringing my paintbrush to my eye level, I sighed and half-heartedly drew a black stroke down across the canvas. White colour followed - merging into a sea of black and white in a beautiful twirl, a fight of opposing colours, across the pitch black night sky. Eyes of a chameleon soon stared back at me, its emerald eyes piercing and glaring, a captivating glare in which the green - of every forest - was enunciated by the white flicks I added to it. With soft strokes, I painted its scales - shimmering like silk under moonlight, as brilliant as stained glass shot through with violet streaks. They were a symbol of camouflage to the world, but I looked at them as creatures of uniqueness and freedom - free to venture the world with no barriers, with no one judging them as they took on any form of expression they wanted.

I stopped painting. I needed a different type of paint brush, but where was it? As I brushed sheets of paper aside, I came across a picture, hidden under the work I had buried myself in ever since my father's passing.

It was a sketch of a warrior I had once thought came just from his imagination - an elegant woman, whose rich black hair the color of the night sky had been drawn woven into a braid; nothing fancy nor glamorous, but it brought out the paleness of her skin - seemingly untouched by the sun's rays. Her eyes held a shine of excitement, yet a tone of shyness as well. She was clothed in silver armor, glinting eerily in the moonlight that streamed through the surrounding forest's leaves. A long, flowing cape the colour of azure blue drifted in the imaginary wind, and in her hands she held a sword, shinier than steel itself. She was valiant and brave, someone I had admired ever since I had laid eyes on her.

Almost immediately, I was drawn back into the past.

"Dad, who is she?" My young, chubby fingers stabbed the picture, pointing to the figure's face.

My father rolled back on his chair, reaching down to grab my small, five-year-old body to lift onto his lap. He took the picture from me gently, smiled, and said, "That's your mother, Aora." I gaped in wonder at the picture, reaching up to trace the meticulously drawn designs on her cape. "She had saved me." He whispered.

I blinked up at him in curiosity. "Saved you? How?"

"Before I met your mother, my life was nothing but monotone colours," he explained patiently, eyes soft. "She came into my life and gave me purpose, a willingness to do better, to grow."

I nodded, pretending to understand, but I didn't. Not really. Not till when I grew up, and watched my parents grow together.

Tears filled my eyes, twisting my heart into a painful knot. I miss you, dad.