Our Little Cherry Blossoms

eighteen. futility

ＡＰＲＩＬ (( ＥＤＭＵＮＤ ))

Edmund observed the scene from the art room window, spring sunlight stinging his steely pupils as he continued to overlook the three figures: two in an embrace, one facing estrangement, and a myriad of tears. Edmund chuckled, as if the entire situation was but a mirthful moment that would be forgotten in time. A salty drop fell from his lower eyelid, and he sighed, his breath soughing through the empty air as he walked back to his seat. The boy settled before his painting - a painting that should've been completed months ago - and caressed the paintbrush with his hands. There was a palpable sense of hopeless urgency in the room, in his chest, yet he knew it was to be ignored. Acknowledging its presence would be worth unnecessary effort and eventual failure, so what was the point? Despite this indifference, mild defiance swirled fecklessly in his mind - he was the one who always knew her truths and her lies, so why should these pathetic excuses of students realise them now? Her secret was no longer his to keep, and now they have nothing to share except the abundance of portraits in his home which all withheld her face. Now they were constant knells, reminders of what could've been.

Riffling the brush through his fingers, he placed it on the canvas and painted, knowing all too well it would be his last session painting this picture as thick clouds moved across the sky to cover the sun.