Dark Romanticism

I

I own all character and aspects of this novel. If it is copied, remade, or misused in anyway that I do not appove of, serious actions will be taken. 

All rights reserved © Sydney McCorkle

I

I think if I preferred bad luck over good I’d be much happier in life. Instead, here I am, standing in my art class, staring at the huge blob of blue acrylic on my oil painting. The oil painting that’s due in five minutes and I’ve been working on for the last month. My first official assignment. I’m the only one in the classroom and I’m tempted to scream. I’m tempted to take the other end of my paintbrush and stab it right through the canvas. Instead I take a deep breath and walk to the sink. I wash my hands, facing the wall, as tears start to stream down my face. I’ve ruined a painting or two in my career but not one that I’d been working on for so long or one that would establish my spot in the class. Yes, surely now I would be only viewed as the messy one. The one people would stay five feet away from when they worked. I knew I shouldn’t have set my painting there. Dammit. I dried my hands and eyes and grabbed the scrapper. I started to scrape the blue off of my forest and make the sky a faded blue to blend with the now blue sheen in my trees. 

“Elisianna! What happened?” I glanced up and saw my art teacher enter the room and storm over to my easel. She had a messy blond-gray bun sitting on the top of her head and was wearing a pencil skirt and a sweatshirt. Her glasses were slipping off her nose and her face was etched with concern. She was the definition of artistically focused and mentally lost. This will be my second year with her and she knows my aesthetic well, something I like in an art teacher. 

“The cup of acrylic Sam didn’t put away was blown over by the wind,” I motioned to the open window by my painting. 

“Oh! I’m sorry honey. I’ll clean that up.” She walked over to the desk, picked up the little cup, now empty, and took it to the sink. 

“Thank you Ms. Crowshov.” She nodded and I went back to fixing my painting. 

“Elisianna, I won’t tell anyone if you take that home and turn it in tomorrow morning,” Ms. Crowshov said conspiritually. 

I smiled and glanced behind my shoulder at her, “Thank you, and I’ve told you so many times, call me Elsie.”

“I know that’s the title you prefer, but I believe in calling people by the names their mother gave them.” I rolled my eyes and watched her walk to the other end of the room. 

I took my painting off the easel and cleaned up my mess. After setting the paint brushes in their jar by the sink, I checked my watch. Shit, I had four minutes to meet India at the coffee shop. Luckily it was ten in the morning and the Seattle traffic would be light.

 I grabbed my painting and ran to the door, “Bye!”

“Bye Elisianna!” 

I ran out to my old, white VW Jetta and threw my painting in the backseat. I hopped in the front and started my engine. As I drove towards the coffee shop I turned up the music. Crooked Teeth was playing and I turned it up further. I’m in a Death Cab for Cutie mood. I turned on Boren Avenue and parked by the curb in front of Zoka Coffee Roasters. I jumped out of my car, locked it, and stormed into the shop, tripping as I walked through the door. Some guy grabbed my elbow to steady me. He smelled good, but I didn’t dare look at him. 

“Thank you.” I mumbled and turned to meet India’s patient gaze as she leans against the doorway. She looked...well, like India. Put together. She was a five foot six women who was rocking a white, fitted dress and red stilettos. She was tan and had high cheekbones bordering her blue eyes and her long, silky black hair framed her face. I grinned at her and she rolled her eyes and smiled at me before starting to walk over. I watched the eyes of men greedily assess her curves and envy shot through me unbidden and unwelcome. I banished the feelings. This is what it was like to be India’s friend. You accepted that you weren’t as pretty because she was too nice to hate because of her looks. And she knew too many of my secrets to cut her off. I would never want to, anyway. We had been friends since we were seventeen and she was now going to school to be a literature major. I was an art major, but truthfully I’m just hoping that works out well.