where we belong

entry

"your sh*t is everywhere, dude!" he, Alex Walsh, the drunk millionaire spoke loudly pointing at every painting hanged on the wall.

"I know Alex, my dear, it's my exhibition," I say as I take a step back as his breath rotten my lungs.

"wow, I like that one." He started to say, "it speaks to me! Like... like.. I mean, I can totally relate to it. IT IS TALKING TO ME," he shouted the last part with both of his arms wide open pointing at the painting.

I tried to not roll my eyes, but I failed. 'Anyway, he's too drunk to notice it.' I thought.

"I know, it's a good piece," I comment holding a laugh.

He rubbed his small blond beard and rose a finger, "I will buy it." He said in a very, very drunken way while shifting his heavyweight from leg to another.

"Oh, thank you." I smiled. My eyes quickly searched for Anderson, "Andy," I called her and she came almost running, "yes, miss."

"Mr Walsh is willing to buy the 'bride of the sea' painting," I said and Andy immediately recorded his name on the sheets between her arms.

"now, if you will excuse me, Alex, my dear." I paused, searching for an excuse, "I'm supposed to meet my father in 5 minutes, you know he's a busy man who can't spend the whole night celebrating with us." I say as I walked away with Andy.

"so, what's his reason?" she threw a question with a grin on her face, already guessing something silly and weird as a reason.

"he thinks the 'bride of the sea' talks to him, he can relate to her," I quote, "I'm pretty sure he didn't read the description under it." This time I don't hold back my laugh.

'no drink or man will ever make me forget. I'm turning into ashes, I'm turning into sand and waves.' -the bride of the sea: after her husband's ship drowned she waited for him every day from the sunrise until the set.

"poor thing." Is all that Andy whispered before walking away to complete her duty.

I stopped by the mirrored-wall and checked my outfit when I saw the reflection of a long guy standing in front of the door talking with the guards. I roll my eyes, "is he a reporter or a rip-off?" I think as I move toward them.

"what's going on?" I ask.

"caught him trying to sneak in." the guard said, "he said he had something to say to you,"

"what?" I wonder, "do I know you?" I now focus on the tall tanned guy.

"I was just wondering, what is your secret?" he paused as his mouth moved more into a smirk his eyes said something I didn't understand, but as an artist who draws, paints and sculpts eyes almost every day, I could sense from the way his sharp brown eyes were looking at me that he wasn't waiting for my answer, nor he asked because he wanted me to answer from the first place, "your work is dull and lacks emotions, as if you recreated the things you used to draw since you were a toddler with poor art supply, but this time you copied it on a massive canvas then hung it on a very expensive well-painted wall."

I look at him with nothing, but sympathy. "What a poor man who can't recognize art, sympathy is all I feel right now." I bit the inside of my cheek hiding my anger.

"Always inviting rich animals who just have the hobby of buying and collecting expensive stuff for no reason." His smirky mouth turns into a line as he says, "I wonder if you being a 'rip-off' is the reason?" he said quoting my famous least favourite words, 'rip-off'.

"just take him out, or call the police." I say as I walk away, "always trying to take you down." I sigh reminding myself then smile quickly as my eyes meet my father's.

*

"thank you for your hard work everyone," I loudly say as I cover my favourite piece with the white silky fabric. "enjoy the cake, I will be leaving first." I pack my stuff all in a black backpack, my phone charger, pencils, a copy of important documents, my laptop. I took a step back to look around in case I forgot something.

"don't forget your phone." One of the workers pointed at the chair where I was sitting.

I grabbed my phone and headed out after thanking everyone one more time. I can't believe that I spent three months preparing for this event and tonight all I get is people who came to get drunk, a stranger who thinks I'm a rip-off with no talent and a father who thinks my art is useless and 'un-understandable' if that even a word. I sigh as I turn the car's engine on and rest my head on the glass window.

"art school? Really? If you can draw some girls in pretty dresses that doesn't mean you're an artist." He, my father, who thinks I should be a businesswoman like him.

"Honey, listen to your father." She, my mother, who believes everyone should listen to my father.

"seriously mom, yesterday you were okay with it," I shout.

"I thought you were joking around," she coldly says as she takes another sip of her dieting tea and I roll my eyes then storm out of the living room.

I remember how terrible I felt. I remember how my friends always mentioned that I would take after my father's steps. I remember the teacher asking us what we want to be in the future in seventh grade and when it was my turn she said, "we all know your future job, Miss Moore,". I remember my first day at art school and how terrible they made me feel.

*

I wrapped my body with a fluffy towel and let my hair air dry. "1:30, time to go to bed," I say lazily as I search for a PJ in my messy closet.

"UGH! Where did all of my PJs go?" I slam the closet's door shut then walk to bed with a pair of underwear and a wool kimono to keep me warm.

Tonight I didn't need my sleeping pills, nor to count from 1 to million because when the back of my head touched the pillow I was already asleep and dreaming of things I'm sure I won't remember the other day.