The Pacifist [COMPLETED]

New Beginnings

Rachel

The living room was perfect! Rachel sat on her new sofa with flourish as she decided she was done. It had involved many late nights and early mornings, but she had finished moving and settling in in under a week. Her space reflected her perfectly. It was safe. It was colorful. And her neighbors! She couldn't wait to go to community events that were all art focused and meet them. Everyone, minus a few clueless tenants who had gotten in early before the purpose of the building had been fully communicated, was an artist. During her time settling in, she had already overheard a saxophone, seen the recycling bins filled with empty containers of various art supplies, dropped brushes, and delivery packages from dance stores.

Her kitchen was primed for simple meals but specialty teas as she had taken up a new interest in traditional tea ceremony. The money from her first collection had afforded her financial and time freedom for at least five years, and that didn't include prints that were still selling like fire. This meant she could create to her heart's content. She had the option of the second bedroom that was east facing (this was important because she found she was most inspired in the morning) and that had been converted into her new studio, or the living room that was west facing and allowed her to work in the afternoon light. She was most excited about working in the communal studio that boasted large sinks along one wall, a leave-one-take-one shelf for all kinds of multi-medium art related items, and ten workstations. These varied between large tables, easels, and a mini sound booth.

A knock on the door interrupted Rachel's basking. She had given up on Mr. Maxwell ever reaching out to her, so she was doubly surprised when she saw him shadowing her doorstep.

"Hello," was all he said.

Rachel just stared at him, unimpressed with the greeting after the way he had ended things.

"I'm sorry," he added.

Okay, that was slightly better, she thought. "What are you doing here?"

"I want to talk. Please, can I come in."

Rachel knew better than to pretend that she didn't want to hear it, and stepped aside to let him in without hesitation. She watched him enter her space... her safe space, and take it in. A part of her wanted his approval still, and she got it via a barely perceptible, curt nod.

He turned to her. "This place is... it's you," he said. "You're an incredible woman."

"I know," whispered Rachel. Again, there was no need to pretend with him. Rachel was aware of how powerful of her it had been to transmute everything into what she had accomplished. She knew the feeling she felt about her collection, was rare. No artist was ever truly satisfied with their work. It was hard to say, "Yes, this is exactly what I intended to make." No, there was always something wrong... as if trying to put together a puzzle where the picture was hazy and where the pieces never quite fit. But she was fucking proud. Maybe she cheated a little, with the fact that the subject matter itself communicated imperfection. Healing was never a straight line. Was never perfect. So her work, in its imperfection, was a self-fulfillment of its own.

"The last time I saw you... I scared myself," he started.

"I know." Her simple words, spoken without accusation or anger, stunned him. She could see his surprise. Yet another feat she could add to her resume because Mr. Maxwell knew everything and couldn't be surprised. Her anger towards him had more than just simmered, it had turned into compassion. She had given up on him coming back, but she had already decided that if and when he did, she would receive him with love. That didn't mean she didn't want to hear his side, however. She needed to hear it and knew he needed to speak it.