"Living in the shadows for almost half my life has taught me one thing: It is not the darkness you should be afraid of, it's the daylight because that is when you let your guard down. It is during the day, when you feel safe, that your enemies can p...
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Prydwen'sPOV
I sighed as I put the kit away. It was a happy memory, it made me happy to think that I had such awesome people with me, to think that I had spent my childhood loitering around with these guys, made me reminisce those moments of peace. But I had learnt it the hard way, happiness didn't come alone, it came hand in hand with pain and sorrow. On the rare occasions when I allowed myself to think about the happy parts of my past, it left me with a strong ache in my heart, it made me crave and long for love, for the pleasant feeling of safety and assurance.
To me, happiness and love had never been free, they had always cost me a hefty price. Being with my brother was a pleasantry I didn't want to deprive myself of, so in exchange for that happiness I got pain; from my mother. I was a fool to think I could be loved and cared for just because I had a family and an amazing best friend. I lost it. I lost all of it, just because of a minor slip up in my guard. Point was that it wasn't even my fault. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't.
Who cares? What's done was done, now all I could do was repent, wallow in my misery and go on with my God-forsaken life.
I was pulled out of my thoughts when my stomach grumbled loudly in hunger. I hadn't eaten a single crumb for the past two days, simply because I didn't want to. I used to be a chubby and cute kid when I was living with my family, I'm not the one who said that, it was the people who knew me back then. All that chubbiness had vanished now leaving me behind.
Intending to raid the kitchen in order to find something good for my tastebuds, I left the infirmary, closed the door, and strolled towards the end of the corridor to the kitchen. The walls of the corridor were painted in a dull white colour, and they were lined with paintings.
Made by me.
Those paintings were not drawn but painted. Even the outlines of the figures portrayed in them were done with paints. That was because I couldn't use a pencil for drawing and shading even if my life depended on it. I had only ever used brushes on canvases, and never used an eraser and a pencil. It wasn't my cup of tea, painting was. When paintings could easily be started and finished with paints and brushes, why must people let pencils meddle in between them.
Memory tended to fade, and with it all the memories I wanted to hold on to. So, if I could capture the moments in paintings, they would stay forever.
The numerous paintings hung on the walls depicted scenes from my childhood. All of them varied in colours, emotions, muses and locations. One thing that all of them had in common was that none of them had me in them. I just couldn't picture or paint myself. It proved to be impossible.
