Sanity

Chapter Twenty Two

He simply looked at me and then harshly, yet gracefully, walked over to me. He roughly pulled out the bottom drawer and took out a tube of charcoal black. I should've seen it coming, his attire represented someone attending a funeral and his eyes were dead,  very much like his soul, I was so quick to assume these things based merely on a colour he claimed was his favourite. He dropped it into my hand and I held my gaze on his hand for far to long. His hands were large and had small tattoos scattered in random places. I wondered what they meant but I knew I was never going to ask him about them. I was lucky I was able to ask him about his favourite colour. My heart started to race when I took into account how forward that made me sound and how he must think I'm so nosey and how I want to be involved in everyone's business. I could feel myself drifting into a state of panic, everything around me was getting blurry. It was hard to see. It was hard to acknowledge my surroundings. I couldn't think straight. It felt as though I had been hit with a brick. I quickly glanced around me seeing the small and large specks of paint on the floor brought a sense of calmness my way, I decided to count them. I made it to sixty three and he interrupted me. I glanced over at him and he was painting the easel black. It was Matt black. It mocked me. I could feel the sense of darkness wash over me as I stared at the harsh black colour.  A shiver ran up my spine. He was more than half way down the easel and his face was so concentrated.

"Have you chose a colour yet?"

I jumped at the sound of his soothing voice. Already I liked him more than I liked myself and that scared me. He could do far more damage than j could do to myself.

I decided to pick the purest colour of them all. The colour that hadn't been mixed with other colours and when mixed with other colours it made them lighter. White.

"Angel, you do realise you won't be able to see that on the easel."

I looked at him as if he was mad. He didn't even glance my way, he was so focused on the darkness erasing the white of the easel. I slowly picked up a brush and took slow cautious steps towards him. I was never much of an artist, my creative side was always expressed in my way with words. I dipped the slim, skinny brush in the paint and simply drew a line straight down his square of despair. He didn't acknowledge me, he stared at the line. Small creases forming across his forehead as he frowned at the line. I knew it was wrong but I felt at that moment he didn't deserve to feel despair or any form of sadness. I stared at the thin white line drawn neatly down the easel. The tip mixing with the wet black paint and gradually getting whiter as it goes down.

We both stared at the painting for what seemed like forever, neither of us moving. Afraid to disturb what could've been. He looked at me with the same blank expression I was so used to seeing when I looked in the mirror. It scared me how much I hated seeing it on him. I quickly broke eye contact and stared down at his shoes. His torn up brown boots , which have no doubt seen better days, however they added character to his appearance, something I wish I had. My heart rate began to quicken as I stared at his boots quickly diverting my attention back to the paint on the easel. The easel represented everything I was and wanted so desperately to be. The line went from dark to light. Almost portraying hope. Almost. But not quite. "We should hope less to avoid feeling hopeless." My mothers words rang through my head, almost like it has been engraved in my bones, sketched into my soul.

"Why?"

I uttered the word aloud. Letting my soul have no control of my mind. As if that three letter word held all the answers to my problems. As if he would know exactly what to tell me to make it disappear. But in reality he didn't hold the key to my happiness and I should've known to hope less, but I didn't. I almost did. Almost. One of the saddest words in existent. I was almost enough. I was almost happy. Brings about a sense of what could've been, but wasn't. Looking at the easel and then his worn out boots, I realized nothing was meant to be perfect. Yet everyone creates an illusion that it should.

"I don't have an answer."

He stated so calmly and quietly, I almost didn't catch it. For once he was almost calm. I listened to my surroundings for once and heard nothing but the wind and the two of us breathing, in that moment I almost felt alive. But just like that the voices came back that made me question my entire existence. I was tired. Tired of living. Tired of being empty yet at the same time so full of sadness.

I was so lost in thought, that I didn't see him start to place the paints back in their original place. I simply stared at the easel. Two different people, portrayed by one simple line. Two strokes, forming one. It made me appreciate the small things in life. Like the small bed of roses that lay outside my bedroom window when I was little. The happiness they brought me when they bloomed was something I haven't felt in so long. As I grew older the little things didn't matter, cause waiting for flowers to bloom in winter was like waiting to be loved, impossible and disappointing. I was never enough. Never have been and never will be.

I heard slamming. I realized he had placed the easel in the corner and covered it with a sheet. I was now simply starring at an easel stand.

"Let's go to bed!"

Was all he said as he turned off the light and walked out, waiting for me at the door frame.