The Artist

1

The sky is darkening rapidly and a wind is chills everything, frosting it with dew in seconds. Birds take flight and smaller animals seek for shelter. A roar of thunder pounds into nearby ear drums while a flash of lightning lights up the atmosphere for a milisecond before returning to dusk. Somewhere in the distance, a piano is being played. Alto and soprano being strewn together in an amazing and beautiful piece. 

I'm awakened from slumber when my younger brother shoves me and then voices his opinion on this seemingly endless drive. "Are we there yet, dad?" 

Blinking several times to get used to the darkness that's flooded into our Dodge truck from when I first laid my head to rest. The dream is only a memory now but the piano still replays in my head; that exact dream has been clouding my sleepy thoughts every night since my dad told us we were moving to France.

My father's voice is hoarse from his lack of sleep but he tries to sound enthusiastic. "We will arrive shortly, Alexander. In the meantime, wake your sister." 

Before Alexander can lay his hands on me, I say almost unaudibly mumble, "I'm up!" Finally used to having no light (except for the pale moon leaving streaks in the car), I can see that our truck is crawling up a dirt road lined with trees. 

It's only five minutes before we head into a dip and between two black pillars, switch from dirt to gravel, and park in front of a two story house. It's too dark to see what the details are but I find that a room upstairs has a deck. 

"I call dibs on the room with the deck!" I yell at the top of my lungs even though my brother is right next to me. 

"Ugh! Jesus... Jack, I'm right here!" Alex hits me in the shoulder and I use the indian burn on his arm. He screeches while my father just chuckles. 

"Come on, guys! Just grab your duffels, we'll get our stuff tomorrow morning." My fathers' voice is deep and cracks a bit too often; it's identical to Alexander's. 

As I make my way to the room with the deck, I catch a glimpse of our new house. Except for the new part, it's pretty nice. The stairs are covered with a rug so I won't slip and it smells kind of dusty but roses overpower that scent overall. Instead of lingering at the top of the stairs, I go into every room before I find my own. 

Flicking on the light, I frown. Light purple walls with a white wooden frame as the floorboards and up against the ceiling. French doors are across the large room and look extremely dirty from where I stand. The actual floors are dark and wooden. A single dresser with a mirror atop of it sits three feet and to the left of the foot of a big bed. It doesn't have any sheets on it or even a pillow but it doesn't bother me. 

I close my door silently and quickly strip my clothes to switch into my fuzzy frog pajama pants with my mothers' old sweatshirt. It's a faded blue color that makes my dark hair stand out even more. I leave my socks on. Going to stand in the mirror, a dark emotion forces my chest to tighten. I look too much like my mother when I wear this but it gives me comfort so I wear it anyway. When I look closer at my face, I can see the purple bags under my eyes and a frown that's been permanent on my face ever since the funeral. 

Pushing away every thought of sadness, I swing my duffel bag onto the bed to serve as a pillow and climb onto the bed. It's comfortable enough but not like a plush one I had at home. The one that I could sink into and just sleep all my worries out on; this one is rigid and hasn't been slept on in a very long time. I lay on my side and close my eyes to start waiting for sleep to engulf me. 

But it doesn't. Thoughts do instead. They take me farther into reality than I would like, pulling and pushing me this way and that. My mothers' funeral is to vivid, like it is just happening and I'm watching it all over again. Then there's the wake which isn't so sad as we recount all the funny things, the happy memories and good traits about her. Then I remember the sleepless nights of staring into nothing and just thinking like I'm doing now. I remember how my father tried to get back into his work as an author, how his enthusiasm was and is still fake. I remember how Alexander was in shock for months; he only came out a month ago when my father told us we were moving. 

After my thoughts raid, rant, and take a ride into memory lane for how many hours, my eyelids finally droop. I welcome sleep as an old friend.