Not Yet

5 | 𝕌𝕟𝕤𝕠𝕝𝕧𝕖𝕕

Later that night I knocked on my dad's study door – a fairly large oak door, with one of his artworks stuck to it. A portrait of his recently passed mother, with her chiseled cheekbones being the focal point for me. He painted her in blues, purples and black as a reminder of the melancholy and depression he faced when she died.

I heard a hard click as he opened the door. He beckoned me in as he slid his hands around my back and took me to his long, timber table.

His study was filled with unfinished pieces, and stacks of cotton canvases. On the wall opposite the door, proudly stood a bookshelf with all the classics. A couch was relaxed against the egg-white wall, with seven books scattered across it. A steel lamp light emitted a gold, arc beam that enveloped his table.

I looked around his table. There was two glass jars filled with water. In front was a towel parched dry by acrylic marks, while another sat soddened. On the right side, a diary noted with ideas, and highly detailed pictures done in sepia ink. There was a record player that stood beside the table. Right now, there was no record disc inserted.

"You wanted me?" I asked.

He nodded, "I wanted to show you this," he revealed a A3-sized canvas.

I squinted, making sure what I seeing was what it actually is. Because right now, my fingers are quivering and my throat is stuck by the sudden denial of the subject of the painting.

Dad took notice of my rigid and tensed body, "Is something wrong?"

I wrenched my eyes from the painting and looked at Dad. I was looking for some explanation, for a reason to why he decided to paint it.

"Dad, I don't know about it... it just seems intense."

"I thought you would like it."

I looked once more at the painting. From below the person seemed fine, but above that laid a more buried fear and revulsion. The face of the figure had again, the scribbles, similarly to the store owner. This was getting out of hand, the uneasiness and disquietude of this unknown figure who continues to take many form, is haunting me. I thought I would become mad and deranged.

But what took me by surprise, was this person was pointing a gun towards his chest. It was intense, the idea that he desires to shoot himself. Probably an underlying reason, influenced by an external hardship or an internal mindset caused by traumas or the need to be free from society, the world and the universe.

However, where did the scribbled entity come to place? How did Dad paint exactly the same detail as the man, for has he too experienced what I faced? I assumed that I may had seen other works of Dad's, where one day I saw the scribbled entity, and that had embedded into my mind turning it into a living nightmare.

"Dad, the figure you painted," I paused, "where did you get the inspiration from?"

He answered, dubious of his words like he was almost holding back on something, "I found it on the... web. That's right the internet."

"Really? The whole scribbled figure?"

"Except for the gun and the position he is in. It is only the per– sorry... character that I got inspired off the... web," he explained.

"Really?"

"Really."

I didn't feel assured, but I pretended that I took his answer to heart. Dad patted my back, and he placed the painting gingerly down on the floor.

"Liam you should get some rest. I shouldn't had bothered you," he said.

"Dad... it's okay. I'm glad that you showed me your artwork," I replied with a grin.