The Will of Love and Life (Peterick)

Chapter One

April 28, 2016

Patrick Stumph was always one to stay inside the lines. Everything he did was inside of his limits. He didn't like to push too far. He paid close attention to every line he made, whether it be on himself or on the canvas. Every flick of his wrist created a new curve, wanted or not. Sometimes, he just couldn't help himself. It was so easy for him to make one move and go in a whole new direction. But he would never dream of doing that to a painting. He kept that reserved for the inside of his thighs, where words were carved into his skin in his nasty left handed scrawl. He would press the words in deep, making sure they scarred over when they healed. The words were embedded in him forever, and he wanted it like that. They were a permanent reminder of why he was planning to make his life disappear.

He was tired and unhappy. Lonely and out of place. The wealthy lawyer kept his money stowed away, only to be spent on bills. The only money he used for himself was what he got from the little amount of paintings he sold. He barley put food on the table for himself; not that he wanted to eat, anyway.

He lived alone in a furnished three bedroom house in a boring, barely middle-class portion of the city. All the houses were separated by trashy fences put up by the city to help everyone keep their privacy. He'd wanted to paint it since he moved in, but it belonged to Chicago, so he had to settle for sitting on the ground to lean back on it, and paint on the canvas he sat in his lap.

That's just what he was doing on a Thursday evening after work in late April when a moving van pulled into the driveway next door. The house had been on the market for months, and he hadn't even realized it had been sold. He'd been too busy hiding in his house all winter to pay attention to anything else. This was the first day he got to go outside and paint, and he was spending the time ducking inside the back door of his home to escape the array of people next door. He put the paints back on the shelf, the brush in the sink, and he propped the canvas up against the wall.

The lawyer retreated to his kitchen to make a cup of tea in the broken kettle. He always used the white mug with the blue paint stained to the cracked handle. He wrapped his steady hands around the mug and carefully walked up the stairs that creaked with every new addition of weight. He stepped over the hole in the hardwood from when he dropped a glass container of yellow paint two years prior. He managed to scrub the stain from the wood, but most of the glass he left there so it would cut into his foot if he misplaced a step. He was clumsy on his feet, so everything he broke he left as a punishment for himself. One wrong move and his skin was penetrated. Not that he minded.

He made his way into his bedroom, hot mug in hand, and kicked the door shut behind him, even though he had no one who would bother him. He set his mug on the table, kicked off his shoes, hung his worn fedora on the hook on the wall, and changed out of his suit and into tight jeans that rubbed his thighs in the worst ways, and a hoodie. It was red, his way to hide the blood that always seemed to stain through it no matter how many times he washed it. His jeans were ripped with holes, exposing his right knee, permanently stained with the yellow paint from the floor. The chemicals and toxins were ingrained in him, impossible to fade unless he scraped all the skin from his knee.

Patrick picked up his mug again and sat down on his bed, springs bouncing at the newly acquired weight. He tucked his feet up under the opposite thighs and brought the mug up to his full pink lips, blowing softly so the liquid wouldn't scorch his tongue. He took a sip before adjusting the thick black-framed glasses balanced on his face. From his spot, the young lawyer had a perfect view out his window, where he could see over the fence and into his new neighbors' yard. His blue eyes searched for any sign of a person until they caught on two young girls who were chasing each other around the boxes scattered in the lawn. Patrick sighed and took another drink. He wasn't a fan of children. Maybe it was because he grew up an only child. Maybe it was because he would never love anyone enough to be able to have his own children. But it was probably due to the fact that he often worked with young children after their parents both died in tragic events. He only pitied those kids because their parents refused to take his advice. But mostly, he pitied himself, having to go to court and figure out a place for those kids to go. He didn't want his children to have to go through estates when he finally gave up, so he pushed any love he could have out of his heart.

Then, his blood-shot eyes caught on a teenage girl. He frowned. The teenagers were worse. They understood. They asked intelligent questions. They wanted to make decisions. They wondered why. Patrick didn't like to answer. He didn't care. His job was to take care of estates before death; not to deal with clients who never thought it would happen to their family.

But then, then Patrick saw something, or rather someone, that immediately peaked his interest. A man with black hair jumped out of the gray car. He had bags slung on his shoulders, obstructing Patrick's view of him, but the lawyer's eyes watched as the boy went up the walkway and unlocked the front door, stepping inside. Patrick blinked, drank down the rest of his tea like it was liquor, and set the mug back on the table. He stood, walked over to his window, and yanked the curtains shut.

He shivered, picked the empty mug up from the table, and went back downstairs, purposely stepping on the shards of glass in his way. They didn't cut deep enough for blood, and while he was disappointed, he ignored the stinging scratches on the heel of his right foot.

Patrick washed his mug in the sink, set it on the rack, and retreated into the living room, where his TV was still turned on from that morning. He collapsed on the couch, but didn't reach for the remote. He didn't know what he was watching, but he didn't care.