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despite the harrowing anxiety left by a serial killer at large, the 'renoir' lake was flooded with families wanting to enjoy the next few days of sunshine brought in by the may weather. the lake, unlike the pond of water lilies, was as open and transparent to the elements as it could've possibly been; only a few luscious green trees danced at the edges of the sapphire water, which was dotted like bubbles in a champagne flute with traditional oak rowing boats commandeered by excitable children (much to the parents' horror) and quiet couples enjoying the romantic ambience of being surrounded by nothing but rippling water.
i myself had no intention of rowing: i found it a waste of energy and fruitless to do by yourself. instead, i've positioned myself atop a plaid picnic blanket on the spring grass overlooking the entire property. creating a juxtaposing backdrop of the wild nature is a stately manor, very familiar to me and privately owned. once again my art pad is settled on my crossed legs as i hunch over, charcoal in hand. i get lost in the harsh rhythm of the charcoal scratching the cartridge, creating a crescendo of swoops and arcs as i recreate the view in front of me in black and white.
i remain very much undisturbed for the most part of the afternoon as visitors come and go. countless boats row past, unable to see behind the thick of reeds i was sheltered by: it was the perfect space for me to be omnipresent and to remain unnoticed at the same time.
or so i thought.
"woah! that looks so real!"
a bright voice jars my hand, smearing black across a space of white. in exhale sharply, turning to meet the cause of the interruption. looking back, a mass of copper hair and round sable eyes stare at my half-finished work in child-like wonder. the boy is dressed in a baggy dandelion yellow sweater and beige jeans and his smile is radiant, even at my visible frustration. i don't smile back, choosing to just blink in a silent question of his motives. after an uncomfortably long silence, he chuckles and sits down besides me.
"i wish i could draw. it would take me so long to do something like that!" he says, gesturing to my work again. nodding stiffly, i resume my sketching, hoping he would leave me alone soon. unfortunately, he doesn't and moves ever closer, breathing down my neck. my fingertips begin to tingle and i grip the charcoal stick so hard it snaps. the noise causes my guest to flinch and the happy-go-lucky facade falters but he quickly comes round.
"can i have a go?"
"you want a go?" my tone is harsh but he doesn't cower away like most people do. instead, he nods enthusiastically.
"how about i draw you instead?" his eyes go as wide as saucers and he jumps up, moving closer to the reeds as he pulls some amusing poses.
"would you? that'd be amazing!" he continues to pose and even i have to admit that he blends in well with the colour scheme of his surroundings. i turn to a fresh page in my sketchbook and ask him to pose dynamically to do some five-minute sketches. his converse sweep along the grass in a waltz and the tops of the reeds are brushing his fingertips like a bow on the strings of a violin.
"could you step back?"
he hesitates at first but i point to my half-finished drawing and shrug.
"okay, i hope it turns out well!"
the minute he presses into the soft mud, it falls away beneath the rubber sole. his balance is thrown and an agonising crack fills the air, followed by a howl of pain. i sit motionless with the end of my charcoal hovering above the page. his thrashing movements and choked screams almost ignite a flame of pity in my throat. almost.
the frigid water soaks through the material of his sweater, weighing him down further; his grip on the reeds is fruitless in saving him because the more he moves, the more he gets pulled mercilessly into the soft mud, his broken leg preventing him from finding purchase on harder ground. his cries for help are smothered by the thrum of activity and since no one can see him amongst the buttermilk reeds, no one comes to his aid.
"what a fuss," i mutter, placing my sketchbook onto the grass beside me. the boys cries melt into something along the lines of a thankful gasp when he sees me approach with my hands in my pockets. he begins to ramble on about being thankful, even letting a few airy laughs tumble from his lips, but he can sense something is wrong when i make no move to help him. my face is stony and i stare as he begins to cry again; his loud screams trigger me to clench my teeth in irritation.
"shut up."
my words catch him off-guard and i extend a tough leather boot towards his shivering form. it only takes one strong nudge in the right place for his entire body to be consumed by the water; i watch as the cries finally silence and his hands fall limply into the sapphire liquid satiating his lungs.
