𝐍𝐲𝐱 (𝘨𝘹𝘨)

V - rope of prejudice

Victoria Valentín

It's pure midnight and the sunflowers are glowing in the moonlight. It reminds me of a certain Van Gogh painting, but I can't remember what the name of the painting is. I'm currently lying down on a picnic blanket, a half eaten croissant in my hand. I skipped lunch and dinner, in order to avoid further embarrassment with Irene and Olive Rios. I've been sitting outside for extremely long, and should probably go back inside to face the fear of laughter, but I am simply not strong enough yet.

I let this process of picnicking outside drag on for a week. I pack all sorts of goods in a basket every day, and I pretend to say, every evening, that I lose track of time. I simply am too caught up in painting and the weather of late April is so, so nice. Yes, that's my excuse.

I close my eyes, but my mind intrusively brings Olive Rios into my headspace. I let out a groan and shield my eyes, as if it would help me lose sight of her. Sometimes, when I'm in the house, I see her eating sloppily, chatting loudly with Irene, playing with Sol. Something that I will never forgive that cat for is snuggling with Olive Rios, it actually makes my blood boil.

I sigh and finish munching on my croissant, sitting up and looking at the dead horizon that blends with the ocean at the truly ripe time of (I assume) ten in the evening. I gather my bearings and stuff the picnic blanket in the basket. I hear the crushing of leaves and assume it's Sol, and knowing she can't understand me, I say, "I will never forgive you for warming up to Olive Rios that quickly." I give a small humph at the end.

"I need you to at least try, Vicky." I turn around, extremely startled. I am never voicing my thoughts to a cat ever again. Tía Irene has her hands across her chest and looks stern in the moonlight.

"Tía, I didn't—"

"Is this the reason why you haven't been eating with us, with me?" She asks me, taking a few steps forward and tilting her head.

"I'm embarrassed!" I exclaim. "Everything that I do, that I once thought was right, turns out to be a subject for mockery!" I explain to her, in hopes that she'll understand.

"Amor, her ways are different," She says with a sigh.

"I can see that." I end the conversation, swerving around her in order to reach the house.

I open the french doors of the living room and rush inside, colliding with someone sweaty (which confuses me greatly). I freeze as they steady me with their firm arms, slowly looking up to meet the same hazel eyes that I've been trying to avoid. My stomach churns in a strange way and my face flushes with embarrassment as I wriggle myself out of their grip.

"Thank you." I say, embarrassed and still trying to rush to my room. I reach the stairs without hearing any laughter from the side of Olive Rios, which I find surprising.

I pause at the staircase when my neck starts to tingle. I turn around and see her looking at me with a strange look in her eyes. From this far away and with no sunlight to guide my eyes, it seems as though she's glaring at me. I feel my ears get hot with frustration and rush up the stairs again.

When I'm finally in the solace of my room, I bury myself into my bed, letting my heart clench enough to make me cry. I curse my sensitivity again, scolding myself for reaching the age of almost nineteen without gaining full control over my emotions.

I've always been the best at everything I've done, except art. I am good, which witnesses to my art often attest to, but I am never the best at art. I've won medals and trophies for being good at solving equations under ten seconds while being half the age of my opponents. I've won every science fair I've attended and never received a terrible grade, especially for subjects I don't find inspiring. I have managed to win myself places in advanced and prestigious schools that even the universally rich cannot excel in. Art, however, has always been something I feel I have a natural talent with, that every inch of my being feels made to create art. Witnesses will often attest and say that I draw a line too thick or that my anatomy is off, no matter how experienced the witness may be. However, I do not want to practice art to be the best. I want to practice art because I love doing it and it makes me happy.

I repeat that little internal monologue when I catch myself being a perfectionist and judging my work harshly. It's not extremely effective, but it gives me a sense of direction.

I'm currently in the art room and it has been a day since I've argued with Tía Irene, I have not spoken a word to her since. My heart aches at the fact that I've been silent. Irene has been the only person to take me under their wing after the death of my parents and perhaps, maybe, I should be civil. I don't care about Olive, not at all (in fact, I can't stand her), but Irene did not deserve to receive the black end of my prejudice rope.

With that in mind, I have come to a conclusion: I will attend dinner tonight.

A/N: heheheh