The Pacifist [COMPLETED]

Disobedience & the Art of Suffering

Rachel

A small thrill trilled through Rachel's body as she deliberated her outfit for the evening. She knew right away what the right one would have been: A buttercup yellow belted dress with a generous skirt that fell just past her knees. The clothes she had worn after the accident had been pushed to one corner of her closet. Maybe it was time to let go of the attire that had accompanied her near decade long mourning, but she worried that getting rid of them meant forgetting the pain of her loss.

Black wool pants with a faint gray plaid pattern caught her eye. They would not only serve as fuel for Mr. Maxwell's irritation, but were also practical with the dropping temperatures. She pulled them down and held them up to shirts to see what would pair well. A crisp white button up shirt would do. It was generic. Monochromatic. It would be perfect. She put on her outfit and looked at herself in the mirror. Even though it hadn't been long since she had returned to her old wardrobe, seeing her reflection in the drab colors stunned her. She looked unwell, the void of color an emblem of how she had felt inside. Rachel turned away, hating the image and wanting to throw out the clothes immediately. But her need to get under Mr. Maxwell's skin was stronger.

The Art House Café was a vibrant little place in Chinatown. As its name promised, the walls were laden with artwork by locals. Even the fixtures and decor were statements of art. The chairs were all unique, as if stolen from the aristocratic residences from various French and English eras. The tables were mismatches as well, some more like coffee tables and others like tiny dining tables. Had Rachel followed Mr. Maxwell's instruction, she would have fit right in. This place looked and felt like home.

Rachel was early so she found a spot, that wasn't as in the corner as she would have liked, and waited, making sure to face towards where he would enter from. When Mr. Maxwell walked in, he found her in seconds, his eyes landing on her... and and her outfit. Rachel squirmed under his scrutinizing gaze as he approached her.

He didn't say anything, his lips pressed tightly together and an eyebrow raised.

"Hello, Mr. Maxwell." Rachel was grateful that her voice came out a lot clearer and stronger that she hoped for.

"Rachel," he replied curtly.

Heat swallowed her whole at the sound of her name when spoken with disapproval. There was so much promise for what would come after... But he didn't acknowledge her disobedience beyond the look and sat down. He checked his watch.

"We should go in to the events room and grab a spot."

"Events room?"

"Yes, there's a paint night tonight. You might be beyond what they're doing but it'll be a good place to start."

Rachel's eyes widened with surprise and horror. She shook her head. "No. No I can't."

"Yes, you can."

Tears threatened to spill. How callous was he? Wasn't he supposed to be an empath? A life coach? Didn't he know how traumatizing this could be? And in a public place too? His passive face was all the more infuriating. Rachel couldn't help but to feel her life and its last eight years were being minimized.

"I told you my story..."

"Yes, and this is how were going to address it."

Rachel didn't move.

"Rachel, you are going to get up, and paint tonight." Mr. Maxwell didn't wait for her response and stood. He walked towards the back of the cafe where a doorway led to a private room. Rachel still refused to move and watched him disappear through the doorway. Other people were starting to trickle in. She eventually stood and edged towards the room. There was a large table that could probable seat twelve to fifteen people. Easels and blank canvases were set up with waiting palettes and brushes. Rachel wasn't even sure she remembered how to hold a brush. The thought made her fingertips tingle. At one end of the room, an instructor stood next to the painting they were supposed to do.