THE THIRD P3RSON

•Chapter 18•

I sat at my desk in Amy's house.

I was looking out the only window I had in my bedroom. I was sketching with my knees drawn up to my chest. I stared at the few trees and other houses that made up Ocean City. I closed my eyes. I could practically hear the waves crashing against the sand on the beach. Opening my eyes, I closed my book, stuck the pencil through my bun like a pin, and headed to my mother's old art studio.

I waited to hear Amy's footsteps but, just like how I expected, they never came. I smiled while clutching the key to the room before unlocking the room across from me. I was at the end of the hallway so I had to make sure that when I closed the door, it wouldn't echo. Amy probably heard me walk but she would know I was in the art room if she heard the click of the door. Once I was in the room, I sighed in relief. I'm back in business, Ma.

I turned on the lights and the entire room came into focus. When my eyes adjusted, I felt like I had escaped where Amy was. I was back in time with my mom. In this room, I could imagine I'm twelve again with my mother downstairs making her nightly hot chocolate because, in her words, it was "too late for her coffee". I laughed into the room. The pearl walls seemed to be smiling. They welcomed me back like an old friend and when I set my sketchbook down on the wooden table in the middle of the small room, I could've sworn the room sang.

I went to the lone sink and turned it on. I found the bottom half of a water bottle that I had cut to create a makeshift cup. I turned it around in my hand, smiling, then proceeded to fill it with water. I set the cup next to the wooden easel and walked around the wooden table in order to reach my mother's smock. I wanted to laugh. It has been too long since I've snuck in here. The fan on top of the room was spinning quietly but I reached up to turn it off anyway. I wrapped the smock around my waist and opened a window. I preferred a window being open rather than a fan whenever I was in here. My mother was the same way and I guess it was a habit she transferred to me.

I settled myself down on the stool that matched the table that awaited in the middle of the room. I almost slipped off of it forgetting the top swerved so the artist had easier access to the plethora of paint behind them. I had restocked each color recently while my wallet wailed in protest. It was worth it. I would have to work again soon to make up for the money I lost but in the meantime, I was going to create another masterpiece.

I picked up a paintbrush from my left and ripped a piece of paper towel from my right. My moves were robotic. I could navigate myself in this room even if it was pitch black. The large black easel stood waiting just like everything else in the room. I wasn't going to wait any longer. I dipped my paintbrush in blue acrylic paint. The action felt nice to do. Here I was, Julianna B. Jones, daughter of the artist of Jean-Michelle Jones, painting the sea. Could I do it justice?

No, but I would try.

After each brushstroke, I kept looking back at my sketch. I cleaned my brush in the water and dipped it in the paper towel to make sure there wasn't any color left. Next color: Orange.

I spent three hours painting, slower than I normally was, but I felt a lot better when the image came into focus. I was still picky with certain colors but, in the end, there was nothing more I wanted to than run downstairs, interrupting Mom's movie with my dad, and show her what I was working on. Instead, I left my masterpiece to dry in the room.

My energy was fading and the life in the room was too. I felt my goodbye in the air and was already preparing for my return. I stuffed everything in its place. I threw out the paper. I dumped the murky water into the lone sink and washed out the cup for later. I washed my hands and scrubbed out paint that found itself under my nails. I dried off my hands on my smock and untied the string that held it on. As I ducked my head out of it, I thanked myself for making the decision to come in here.

I left the picture in there to dry. While I was locking the door, I didn't look back at the painting. It was a single moment captured in a picture. A little girl was being hugged by her mother in the centre of the ocean with the sun setting. The little girl was enjoying her last moments with her perfect family, unaware of the oncoming tidal wave that was going to crash against them.

The painting truly was a masterpiece.