Snip-it's

Paint the Trees

My mother never cared.

She would buy me a pack of new paints every year, and occasionally she would hand me a 20 dollar bill for my next month of food, but that was about it.

She sent me to school until I was in 5th grade, when she decided that booze and cigarettes were a better use for money than an education for her "accidental" child. Child services came a few times after that, and one time they brought a few policemen. However, I was hiding in the woods, and they couldn't hold her without charges or evidence. I guess they just stopped caring about the mysterious daughter of the town drunk.

I guess they stopped caring about me.

Usually, anyway, I slept out at Uncle Henry's.

Of course, Uncle Henry had died in the 40s and his place was an old shack, but I made do with what I had.

I found it when I was 12 after a particularly nasty fight with my mother.

She told me that I was a unwanted brat who only thought of herself, and I told her she was a drunken wh*re who hated her own flesh and blood.

After that, I hardly ever saw her.

Henry's is a beaten-down square of steel sheets that sits in a hidden away alcove of trees. You have to turn to the left at the river and then twist halfway around just to see it, but it's all worth the search in the end.

Sometimes I use a blue bucket to gather some water from the river, and then I use some water purification tablets I found in the trash outside the grocery store, so that I had clean water. Also, I had a bow and arrow that I was pretty handy with, so when I ran out I money, I could catch my own food.

Usually, however, I painted in my free-time.

I had no paper, so I would use an ancient razor blade to chisel off about a half a centimeter of the bark off birch trees so I could paint on that. Since it wasn't harming the trees because I only used non-toxic watercolors, I saw no issue with my hobby.

<<

My mind was blank.

I had absolutely no idea what to paint.

I pushed off my blankets and took off running into the woods. Quickly, I passed the tree I usually sat in to watch the runners, but I didn't stop. I had a feeling that today would be different. I reached a tree fairly close to the path: actually it was right next to it. Immediately, I sat down and gazed at the path. I sat for a while without noticing anyone particularly interesting.

Then, he ran by.

He was sprinting, but I saw his eyes.

That was enough to inspire me.

I took off running towards my gallery of paintings, and was almost there, when I tripped on a tree root and sprawled across the forest floor.

I looked down, and sure enough, a bloody gash the length of my thumb was torn into my calf.

I hissed out in pain, but slowly got to my feet. I limped my way along the path, stopping a few times to apply pressure to the wound.

I stumbled into my living space and grabbed my old first-aid kit that I had salvaged from the river. My hands wildly grabbed at the gauze and disinfectant, and I hurriedly patched up the injury.

A few moments later, I remembered the boy.

I reached for my brushes and my pallet, and I got to work on one of the trees out back.

The grays and blues mixed in my mind. They swirled and dipped like the boy's iris'. I painted them as best as I could, with the short memory, and for as long as I could handle standing on my injured leg.

My heart raced with anticipation as I desired to see this boy with the brilliant eyes one more time.

I don't know why this ended so suddenly to be honest. I could probably keep writing this from his POV, but I decided that it was getting too long to be considered a "snip-it" or "afterthought". I was putting too much thought into it.

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