The Desperate Artist

Bubbles

"Almost done, Ms. Siddal!" I exclaim as my fingers throbbed from the excessive pressure of the pencil. The year was 1885 in England, and John Ruskan wanted another masterpiece to continue his patronage for me. With Elizabeth Siddal's face engraved onto the canvas, I began to conclude the day's worth of work. "And.....done!" I smiled when I concluded the last touches on the sketch. I flipped the canvas to her vision, and I saw her fair-toned cheeks blush. Her raw umber eyes extinguished such modesty as she stood up and clutched her cloak. "It is beautiful, Mr. Millais. Shall we meet tomorrow?" She asked in a warm, tone. "Yes, of course." I proceeded her to the door and we saluted goodbye. Her wavy, silky ginger hair had swayed in the breeze and she had headed home with twirls and humming of joy. Steadily I shut the door and I sat on my stool to ponder. With a sigh, I reached for the canvas and threw it at the door.

The headache had overwhelmed me as I began pacing back and forth with the vivid cracking of the burnt oak floor. With the crunching of the fire, my heart burned wild. "Think, John, think!" I muttered to myself as my pacing continued, "Just think of how disappointed Mr. Ruskan will be, come to think of it, Dante and Maniac as well! You will ruin the entire brotherhood!" I seized an angle paintbrush stained with muddy colors of oil and i tapped the polished end on my lip through series of critical thinking. My pacing had gradually increased as the demon of stress hovered over me. "I need air," I finally made out as I snatched my cloak and darted through the door.

The wind had no mercy that day. My face went numb as the spirit of ice touched my nose. Clouds of melancholy had hung in disturbance to the playing children. Slowly, all had grown quiet. Even the clicking of my cane seemed to mute out of the picture.

As I turned abruptly towards the end of the block, something had began to tug on my cloak. "If you please, give me a pound," an angelic voice of a child had rung. My eyes darted across the stone sidewalk, and there the little boy was, with ragged clothing and evidence of lack of sleep under his eyes. My knees had steadily began to kneel. "If you please, give me a pound," he repeated. "Oh. Yes, of course," I uttered. I had reached into the pockets of my cloak, and I pulled out five pounds. "How about we play this my way," I began with a voice of confidence, "I will give you a pound for every question you answer." Once the child had nodded after a couple of minutes of hesitation, I had stood. "First question, where are your parents?" The child twinkling eyes had dimmed. His head had fallen as well as his spirit. The moment his eyes began to water I felt a part of me break away. The child had drifted away into his island of tears, and I couldn't reach him.

I swept him off of his feet as I attempted to calm him down. "There there, that is not important," I said foolishly. He felt so fragile. It felt as if I had shattered shards of his heart in my hands and I tried to mend them back together with failure. I tried to pat his back, and I began to hum the merriest song I knew, but in exchange, all I received was dirty looks from the pedestrians. I needed to care for this child, and that was all that had mattered to me.

My prayers had been answered as I found a gentleman in a charcoal tophat selling bubbles. Nothing had been more therapeutic as a child than blowing the soap bubbles and watching them drift off to the clouds. That was when freedom had a meaning and the burden of adulthood and responsibilities had not. Casually, I had put down the little boy and I zoomed over to the booth.

"How much are these?" I asked the elderly man as I pointed to the set of two pipes and a clay bowl of soap. The old man scratched his beard and lifted the bowl. He had examined it thoroughly and eventually, he had placed it back onto the table.

"Twelve Pounds, sir."

"Twelve Pounds, for bubbles?"

"Indeed."
"But, why?"