The Artist

- Part 1 -

Pale light filtered through the grey window, and dust swirled through the square of light as a man shuffled over to an untidy desk, sketches, brushes and pencils littered the surface, almost obscuring the torn tablecloth beneath. He sat down with a long sigh, as if letting years of pain and suffering momentarily come to rest. He softly lifted an old paintbrush in his tired hand, the light reflected dully off the metal band. He sat there quietly, staring into the blank canvas. His old and experienced eyes seemed to search it for the masterpiece that lay deeply in his mind. The end of the brush tapped against a glass of water, sending subtle ripples along the surface. He dipped the brush into the paint and spread it along the canvas. Explosions of colour seemed to crack open the plain surface and the painting beneath would slowly reveal itself.

The colours began to blend and contrast, raising buildings from the ground and breathing life into birds, which flew across the cloudless sky. Water flooded the roads, and boats rocked sleepily over the rippled surface. High bridges rose over the canal, and allowed the small boats to pass underneath. Small ripples lapped against the side of the canal, slowly weathering the stones smooth. A young boy walked along a stone footpath, edged with intricate railings. His hand outstretched, he traced the top of the rail, feeling the motion of the shapes beneath his fingertips. Shaggy blond hair fell over his eyes, and it swayed with the motion of his footsteps as he walked. He passed people, but no one he knew, no one he would know, and no one he would remember. The people were faceless, and vanished from memory in an instant, just as he was to them.  

He made his way home through the streets, kicking loose stones into the water. He turned down and through a different street, away from the canal and brought his fist to a door, knocking lightly. He stepped back and waited for a reply, looking around at the familiar scenery. The door opened with a low creak, revealing a man standing behind it. Their faces looked similar, although the one at the door was obviously older. The man stood to one side and the boy walked into his home. The cold tile floor shocked his feet, but he didn't cringe, he had become accustomed to it now. He passed a woman through the kitchen on his way upstairs; she was busily stirring a pot with a wooden spoon. He guessed it was soup by the colouring of it, but didn't take much notice.

He walked slowly up the stairs and into his room, colour exploded off the walls, posters and paintings hung all over, making it difficult to see the wallpaper underneath. He looked around, inspiration came flooding into his head once more, chasing out dull thoughts from the day with the vibrant spectrum. He jumped into a seat next to his desk and started sketching, the grey pencil was seemingly simple and boring, but it projected his thoughts into reality. That's what he loved best about it. It gave him the power to create anything he wanted.

Hours passed, and the sun began to sink behind the buildings, the light through his window becoming dimmer. Paper had begun to stack over his desk. Drawings of landscapes and fantasies, whole worlds flattened onto a piece of paper, like portals when they were looked at. Yelling coming from downstairs seared through his mind and the thoughts faded, to be replaced by curiosity and a small amount of fear. He stepped slowly from his room and gazed down the stairs, the harsh voices becoming louder as he crept closer, then came to a sudden stop. The scene unfolded from the bottom of the stairs, he saw a shape move quickly out of the front door, slamming it behind them with a loud bang which made him jump. The other sat on the couch, hunched over in anger. The boy approached the person on the couch, and saw his father glare up at him. The boy moved his gaze to the front door, standing eerily in the gloom, now silent. The three pairs of shoes at the door had decreased by one. He knew that, for a long while at least, that he wouldn't see his mother again.

Over the next couple of years, the boy's father was never the same. He was cruel and angry almost all of the time, they hardly talked anymore. When they did it always ended in something getting broken, a plate, a shelf, an arm, a heart, a bond. So the boy preferred to visit his grandfather, and began to spend more and more time with him. His grandfather was an artist, and he would tell him stories from his days when he was young, and how he traveled the world to find inspiration, he also told him funny stories too, and they would laugh, something the boy had been almost lost to for a long time. His grandfather also began to refine the boy's growing art skills, showing him brush techniques and tricks he had learnt. They established a friendship that outgrew that of his father's.

But the boy's father was worried, and angry. He felt that his father was influencing his son the wrong way, he didn't believe becoming an artist would be a sustainable career, and decided to try and keep his son from spending time with his grandfather. He only had just enough money to send him to school, now that he and his wife were no longer together. He needed to change the boy's point of view, so that he would go for a well-paying career.

His son came home one day, his arms hiding something as he carried the item upstairs. The boy ignored his father completely, and passed him as if he was nothing more than a shadow. The father paused and waited for a while before following his son, he walked up the stairs with a sense of authority about him. He turned into the room and his son turned suddenly, a surprised expression sat momentarily on his face. The boy remained silent and stared at his father with narrowed eyes. Was it hatred he saw in the boy's eyes? Had they grown apart that much? The father felt something new, something beneath the anger... Jealousy. He realised suddenly how much he missed the time he spent with his son, going on walks, talking together, and teaching him how to become the boy he was now. But it was something the boy took for granted. Something every young child sweeps aside, as if it didn't matter anymore. He was looking to his future. The role model he was to his son was gone, and the loving look his son once gave him was gone. His son didn't want to be like him anymore. The happy memories they once had were now dead, forgotten.

The boy's father calmly started to speak, "Your grandfather has taken this too far, he is not a good role model son, Daydreams and fantasies aren't going to carve your future" As his father spoke the boy remained silent.

"Daydreams will give me a future if I make them reality." He mumbled angrily so that his father didn't hear what he had said. His father suggested other careers, but the boy shook his head at every one of them. He replied "I want to be an artist like my Grandfather, and I want to travel the world like he did" His father slammed his fist against the wall in rage, silencing his son with fear.  The boy's eyes diluted at the sudden movement and he curled up defensively.

"Well then, I won't allow you to visit your grandfather anymore until you start aspiring towards a different career" His father growled. Then he caught sight of paints and paintbrushes on the desk, they looked fairly new and realised the boy's grandfather had given them to him. The boy's father lunged towards them, collecting them up and ignoring the yells of protest from his son. He knocked his son back onto the floor and stomped out with the art supplies, the wood knocked harshly under his feet as he stomped down the stairs. He threw the paints and brushes into the fireplace, and the flames consumed them with a roar, with a rage similar to his own. He stood and watched, the flames slowly destroying the boy's dreams. His son watched from the bottom of the stairs, silent. The flames from his father's heart were burning his son's, burning away desires and dreams that his father wanted to control.

But as the father watched the colours turning black, he saw the ghosts of masterpieces that were never made. The ones his son might never make because of him. The flames that had engulfed his heart were dying, and guilt had begun to extinguish them. He turned to his son with sadness, searching the boy's eyes for forgiveness. But all he saw now in the blue depths of his son's eyes was anger.

He stared at his father with pure rage. "When I grow up, I never want to see you ever again!" He screamed, then he turned and ran back upstairs, each tap of his foot against the wood got fainter, further and further away from his father. Each tap being replaced by silence and loss.

The following day the boy ignored his father's words and went to see his grandfather again. He tapped the door lightly, but no answer came. He waited for a while longer before opening the door himself, edging around it and into the seemingly empty house. He called out for his grandfather again, and was met only by the silence. He checked the rooms, but every one of them were uninhabited. Something on the table caught his eye and he walked over to it. A small package sat on the tablecloth, an envelope sat neatly on top. His eyes opened wide in surprise when he saw that his name had been written on the paper. He picked up the envelope and tore it open, reaching inside and pulling out a note, it was written on a faintly coloured paper, the writing was elegant and the letters joined in an elaborate dance. He began to read.