Sculptures - Larry Stylinson

One

The hospital had almost become a second home to Harry, with three weekly check-ups that felt more like a routine than a necessity. But Harry wasn't sick; he was convinced his family was overreacting, as they always did. They were a lineage of hypochondriacs, each one more anxious than the last, interpreting every ache and pain as a life-threatening condition.

It all began four months ago, one fateful night when Harry woke in a cold sweat, his body betraying him. He doubled over, retching violently, as a horrifying mix of blood and dinner splattered onto the floor. The sight was jarring, yet it didn't shake his belief that he was simply the victim of an overactive imagination and a family history steeped in paranoia.

It was almost absurd, really. His mom and stepdad had pulled him out of school, insisting it was "safer" for him to stay home "just in case."

Nonsense.

Harry felt like a prisoner in his own life, confined by their paranoia and their overblown fears. School was his sanctuary, a place where he could escape the hospital visits and the incessant worry. Now, instead of learning and socializing with friends, he was stuck at home, feeling more isolated than ever.

****

Harry stood in his art room, a sanctuary where he felt almost whole. Here, he was free to be himself; carefree and unburdened. Surrounded by his creations, he could lose himself in the vibrant colors and swirling forms, if only for a fleeting moment.

In this sacred space, he could escape the weight of his family's fears and the pressure of his so-called "health issues." With every brushstroke and sculpted form, he momentarily silenced the doubts that echoed in his mind, immersing himself in the pure joy of creation.

Currently, Harry was working on a piece that he felt was quite impressive, if he dared to say so himself. It was more than just a sculpture; it was a culmination of his dreams and aspirations.

This creation would hopefully be his ticket into his dream school: Crestwood Art School. Harry had long envisioned a place there since he was just a little boy, dreaming of a future where his art could flourish.

After seven years of dedicated practice and countless small awards, his confidence had grown immensely. Each recognition had fueled his passion, but this—this piece would be the biggest achievement yet.

The record player in the corner of the room filled the space with sweet melodies. Call him a nerd, but Harry always found solace in classical music while he worked on his art. The soothing strains of strings and piano wrapped around him like a warm embrace, helping to quiet his mind and inspire his creativity.

The art room was dimly lit, its floor covered in a patchwork of dust and paint spills. Old art pieces were scattered throughout, each one a testament to his journey as an artist.

This space was undeniably his, a reflection of his soul. Everywhere he looked, remnants of his creativity surrounded him, each creation echoing a piece of who he was.

In the midst of the room stood the sculpture he had been working on for almost three weeks. He had begun the project after his parents pulled him from school; it became his escape from the chaos of his life.

Now, he was finally nearing completion.

The white marble figure resembled a young man - small of build and shorter than Harry, yet possessing curves that compensated for its lack of height.

The sculpture was by far Harry's longest and most detailed piece. Every wrinkle in the boy's body, every visible vein, and each soft feature had been carefully crafted. It had to be perfect.

He picked up the small chisel, raising his hands to carve out the last few pieces of the boy's face. Harry always saved the face for last.

Not only did it make carving the more awkward parts of the sculpture easier, but he also believed it allowed him to "get to know" the piece. By the time he reached the final touches, he felt he could create a face that truly matched the essence of the body.