Expulsion gave Liam Barrett a dangerous choice. Needing to transfer for his final year, he'd known immediately where to go. It was a distantly familiar place that'd taken everything from him; had once ruined him so absolutely and twisted his persona...
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Returning to a large house after lunch, Liam was again reminded of how empty it could be.
ㅤThe click of the front door snapped like a gunshot, the noise punctuating his realisation that no matter how long he squatted in this cardboard place, he wasn't comfortable. Not truly. His home wasn't a Georgian terrace with a welcoming matt and a soft bed, home was a time that'd already passed.
ㅤHis morning shift had ended without further conflict and Liam doubted Charlie even noticed he'd left. With Aaron at school, and Ella and Logan at work, Liam was left to his own devices.
ㅤIn the corner of his bedroom, abandoned, numerous canvases were pushed up against the wall like gravestones. Guilt pricked at him as he ran his fingers over their staling sides, finding himself tentatively drawn to them.
ㅤLiam's mother was the one who'd first pried a paintbrush into his small uncoordinated hand. He couldn't recall it, apparently splattering paint everywhere in protest. Pictures, somewhere, depicted it. But he refused to look for those.
ㅤInstead, the only memory that'd slipped through was of vivid colours splayed on a canvas beside his mum in her garage. His mother had never pushed him away when he'd wandered into that room. She was content with young Liam's company, despite the agent of chaos he was.
ㅤAfter she passed away, Liam somehow hadn't picked up a brush again. By the time he'd realised it, years had already passed. Holding one now flooded him with something painful. It hurt like a wound.
ㅤDespite all of this, Liam was his mother's son. He craved creation with his brush and releasing the imaginative tremour in his head. His mother once swore she had to create to drain a flood inside her, else it festered like a plaguing swamp, and they'd all laughed at the time. But, she hadn't been wrong— Liam felt that too.
ㅤHe'd only once picked up a brush since. Gritting his teeth, he'd painted angrily. But it wasn't the same. Colours had mottled with black he hadn't realised he'd been using. An ugly thing. There hadn't been anything enjoyable about it.
ㅤMaybe what he'd originally liked, wasn't necessarily the act, but doing it alongside his mother. None of his siblings had taken a liking to it. It was their thing alone.
ㅤIn the furthest corner was a particular canvas. Liam simply looked at its side. It'd been the last thing he'd painted beside her. She's adored it, gushing out her pride for him. It was going to be a birthday present for her once he'd finished.
ㅤIt lain there half-finished and forgotten.
ㅤShaking the thoughts out of his head and turning his back to them, Liam forced a smile onto his face in an attempt to force his mood to switch. He convinced himself it worked.
ㅤThe shrill of the doorbell sliced through the house. It was sobering.
ㅤExpecting to see a political campaigner or a religious hack, Liam readied himself to adopt the lifestyle of whatever the cold-caller opposed; gay, Christian, fascist, socialist— all of them at once. His confidence faltered after opening the door.
