Our Little Cherry Blossoms

six. anxiety

ＯＣＴＯＢＥＲ (( ＣＡＳＥ ))

A peculiar concoction of sweat, deodorant and foul morning breath whirled seamlessly around me as I charily waded against the throng of students who were rushing to the bus bay, ardent to return home and ludicrously throw their precious minutes into the past. The youthful voices muddled with their hurried footsteps, producing a distasteful orchestra of pandemonium. How vexing. Tuning out the unpalatable clamour, I lengthened my strides and fervently escaped the nauseating battlefield of perspiring teens. Even though I spent much of my time in people's company, I rather appreciated my solitary moments. Especially now. Around this time, I would usually join my fellow comrades to make the short journey to the food court, yet Edmund had informed me that he was planning to work on his overdue art piece after school. With a tiresome sigh, I adjusted the straps of my backpack and dragged my enervated feet down those audacious stairs and towards the fine arts building. Upon entering the complex, my eyes mischievously wandered over to the metallic elevator doors that so temptingly seemed to beckon me into their lair. Inescapably, I gave in and ventured past the gleaming, silver entry way and insouciantly pressed the button for level six. Conventionally, this privilege was reserved only for the crippled and the teachers, but us inconsiderate pupils took advantage of this installation anyway. Sauntering out of the elevator at the sixth floor, I pushed open the door to one of the art rooms and found Edmund squatting vehemently on a small birch stool, glaring at the canvas on his easel with severe intensity.

"This painting is inspired by you, Case."

Edmund's husky voice scuttled along the paint stained walls, leaping into my ears like apterous sprites returning from a tedious pilgrimage. I was honoured, but his lethargic tone worried me slightly; however, I knew he could devote another forty-eight hours to his art without fluctuating. Before I could attempt to inquire about his wellbeing, Edmund raised his skeletal fingers in my direction and beckoned me over, his unwavering gaze firmly locked on his painting. Sighing, I released my bags and let them fall to the floor, ambling my way towards the dirty blonde lad while squinting at what was so carefully massaged upon the canvas. It was a bird cage with a charcoal hue, tenderly caressed across the fabric. The cage door was open. At last, Edmund straightened his spine and swiftly allowed those eyes of his to graze my presence; though it only lasted for a moment. His eyes were a glazed yet penetrating cerulean blue with steely gunmetal flecks peppered around the pupil. Due to the vehemence of his stare, I didn't mind his lack of eye-contact at all. Judging from his altered posture, I suspected that he was expecting a comment regarding the painting.

"I think it needs a bird."

I mused absent-mindedly. There was no reply at first, I also hadn't realised the interesting silence that lapsed after those six words I spoke. The reasoning for my choice, was the open cage door. It was as if he was asking for someone to furnish the lack of adornment within him. To fulfil the very purpose of why he was crafted. I continued my words without hesitation, my mind swimming through viridescent pine forests and roasted chocolate tree trunks.

"A brown lark, with green eyes."

The edges of Edmund's thin lips heightened ever so slightly, an enigmatic grin without white abruptly appeared on his pale pallor as my enraptured orbs visualised the future of the image, animating the painting in such a way that I saw the lark tentatively landing in front of the metal bars, peering inside with wide, inquisitive eyes, perhaps discovering a possible home that would protect her from the dangers of the vast world. A world brimming with overwhelming phenomenons. Knowing that she has a place to return would bolster her anxieties, would comfort her. I, of course, was oblivious to Edmund's scintillating curious gaze, who in fact had surmised his own thoughts concerning myself. I hadn't even heard him mutter his theory in my ruminative daze.

"Looks like you've found your own bird to catch."