Portraits [On Hold]

Chapter 22- Distance & Determination

**

When I got back to my apartment, I threw my bag on the couch and walked back to my art studio. I felt frustration inundate me and found no other way to cope with it than with art. Blue would be coming home soon and I knew I would be lectured on how much of a selfish idiot I'd been and how I needed to get back with Aiden because my mom had no right to barge into my life and judge every aspect of it.

But I also knew that lecture would be absolutely pointless and a complete waste of time because I was very aware of all that.

So I decided to take out all my paint, the biggest canvas I had, and began splattering different, bright colors all over it. I didn't care if it was the ugliest or the most impressive piece of art I'd ever made; I needed to chanel out all my anger on that white canvas.

I let the paintbrush stroke it angrily, abrupt and harsh streaks of different colors now inhabiting what was perfect and white just a few seconds ago. To go along with my wreckless behavior, I allowed a frustrated yell escape my lips.

"Why,"

Red streak.

"Is life,"

Blue streak.

"So,"

Yellow streak.

"Complicated!"

I dropped the paintbrush on the floor and stared at the piece of what you could call art. I nodded in approval, very satisfied with my work. It looked like an abstract painting. Aiden would've been proud.

And as soon as that thought crossed my mind, I felt like crying all over again. So, instead of letting my tears win me over, I decided to walk towards the canvas and pick it up.

My finger slid across the top of it softly, letting my sense of touch take in all that the texture of the canvas material had to offer. Then I ran my hand across the whole thing, not caring about the fact the paint was still fresh. I recklessly began destroying it all, my hands moving up and down all over it, and then I punched a hole through it.

I frowned at it.

What a shame, I thought.

Oh, well.

I lifted it up and then threw it across the room, part of me knowing that sooner or later I would regret it, seeing that my impulsive reaction had just knocked over my perfect, color coded colored pencils shelve. It had taken me two hours to do that.

My frown deepened as I stood there alone, my eyes fixed on a broken canvas and a destroyed shelf. It was incredibly disturbing to stand there feeling so empty, hollow, and dull in the presence of so many bright, happy colors. I turned around and walked out of the studio.

I immediately went to the kitchen and washed my hands, the all too familiar smell of paint lingering in the air, prominent and making it harder to take my mind off Aiden.

Every time I smelt it, the memories of Aiden and I covered in colors at the paint shop came back. I wondered if it would ever go away or if it would be one of those memories that is permanently imprinted on your brain and linked to a certain object—in this case being the paint.

I sighed, realizing I was getting too carried away with my train of thoughts and I should probably hop off of it.

Once I washed off all the paint, I grabbed a small, yellow towel lying on the counter and dried my hands with it.

Ding.

I walked over to the couch and sat on it, taking my phone out of my bag.

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