Shorties

Art

Shades of blue, gray, and green clouded his vision. His eyes traced every curve of the ink embedded into the large canvas.

How long did it take for the artist to do this?

What brushes did they use for those types of strokes?

I should try-

"-Smith!"

Christian jerked his head toward the front of the room. His teeth sunk into his tongue as pain shot through his neck. His focus zoned in on the irritation gracing his professor's features.

"Care to tell me how to help a person experiencing a seizure?"

Swallowing, he rubbed his fingers together and answered, "Make sure no one is around them and clear anything can harm them. Lay the person on their side and clear their airway. Make sure to time their seizure."

"That is correct," his professor sighed, "Smith, this is the third time you've spaced out in class this week. It's good that you're learning the information, but if your head is stuck in the paintings maybe this class isn't for you."

Christian lowered his head. He could feel his skin flushing in embarrassment. How could he let himself get distracted yet again! He'll never hear the end of it if Kyle gets ahold of him. He opened his mouth to apologize, but the words died on his tongue.

"Class is dismissed, you all may go."

With shame still heavy in his veins, Christian rose from his seat, keeping his eyes glued to the table. He stuffed his binder into his tote bag and squished his textbook under his armpit. Quickly, he shifted away from his seat. The soles of his shoes scrubbed the floor as he shuffled out of the door with the crowd. Christian moved to walk down the hall, but a hand gripping his shoulder stopped him. Through his peripheral, he recognized the fingers latched onto his lab coat.

"Christian, what the matter? Why were you spacing out again?"

Unruly strawberry blond locks and charcoal eyes filled with worry. Kyle's figure towered over Christian by a foot. The dark and heavy bags on his face stuck out like a sore thumb.

He must have stayed up again.

How much sleep did he get in the past two days?

"I'm fine. I was just looking at the painting on the wall again and got distracted."

The blond said nothing for a moment. He stared with his lips pressed into a thin line while his nostrils flared.

"Chris, you can't keep doing this to yourself!"

Christian wanted to tuck himself into a ball, hearing the pain and desperation in his friend's voice. He knew how badly Kyle wanted him to switch out of the program and follow his desires. Christian was well aware of how his friend wanted him to accept the commissions he got from his hobby, but he couldn't. He was scared.

"Listen, I get it, I do. But you shouldn't force yourself to go down this path just because you're afraid to disappoint your parents," Kyle exasperated, "Everyone else is a doctor in your family, you don't have to be!"

Christian ran a hand through his loose curls and licked his chapped lips. His gaze flickered around, hoping no one was listening to the conversation.

"I know I can't force you to do anything, but please consider it. You would be a great doctor, I don't doubt it. Your bedside manner is impeccable and you always do well in clinical, yet your heart isn't there. I see the way longing in your eyes when we walk by the art room or pass a museum. I don't want you to be miserable doing something you don't want to do."

"I know," Christian whispered, "I gotta go."

****

Holding his books in one arm, Christian fished his keys out of his coat and unlocked the door of his apartment. Darkness greeted him like a dog greeting its owner. Kicking the door closed behind him, he dropped his textbooks on the couch and shrugged off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor. His shoes and socks came off soon after, leaving his bare feet to slap against the floor as he headed to the bathroom, shedding a layer of clothing with each step.

After changing into an old shirt and a pair of shorts, Christian reemerged into his living room. In his hands, he had a box of paints and paintbrushes. He held his supplies as if they were his most prized possession, and to him, they were. He took a seat in front of the large canvas resting on the easel in front of his window. Its paper white surface was decorated with pencil lines he created to shape his current project.

The second his paintbrush touched the canvas he was transported into a different world. His muscles loosen, and his breathing grew sluggish. His arm moved with a mind of its own, dancing around the surface.

"If your head is stuck in the paintings maybe this class isn't for you."

He dipped the brush into a new color.

"Chris, you can't keep doing this to yourself!"

The growing beat of his heart rang in his ears.

"I see the longing in your eyes when we walk by the art room or pass a museum. I don't want you to be miserable doing something you don't want to do."

Christian shuttered a shaky breath. He tore his gaze aware from his work in front of him and looked at the papers lying lifelessly on the table feet away. Transfer papers. The same stack that had been lying there untouched for a week. He swallowed dryly as his fingers itched to touch the papers.

Maybe Kyle's right, I should.

Christian shook his head at the thought.

"I need to get ready for dinner," he muttered.

****

Christian entered the door of his childhood house. The walls were littered with photos of his family dressed in white coats and smiles. Christian felt his stomach churn at the sight. Sluggishly, he moved deeper into the house, stopping when he stood at the entrance of the dining room.

He cleared his throat, catching the attention of everyone in the room. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words were caught in his throat. He rubbed the area praying it would loosen the knot. Again he parted his lips, croaking, "I don't want to be a doctor."

"What?" his mother asked.

"I want to be an artist. No," Christian stated, "I'm going to be an artist."