I know we had a Character Story post last Saturday, but I have an hour and a half before this post is supposed to be out, and I wanted to write this. So put up with it!
Oliver
The wood twirled between my fingers and tapped against my leg. I stopped myself when I realised I was chewing on the end of it, and set the paintbrush down, sighing and running my hands through my hair. The easel was still blank, a literal blank canvas that I had yet to fill, but my mind was empty. There were no colours flashing behind my eyes, begging me to paint them, there was just darkness.
A knock sounded at the door of my bedroom, and I called out to let Jess know she could come in.
"Any luck?" She asked, pushing open my door, and I sat up straighter, staring up at the mocking emptiness staring back at me.
"No. I can't see any of my colours."
"Here," Jess held out a cup of tea for me and I took it, mumbling a thanks and sipping the tea, hot enough to burn my tongue and lips, but I didn't care. Maybe it would spark some reds, oranges maybe.
But no, nothing came to me, no colours presenting themselves, and no emotion ready to burst forth, other than the sudden need to stick my tongue out to cool it down.
Jess sat down on the side of my bed, next to me. The mattress dipped with both of our weight, and forced her to lean in my direction. Her arm brushed against mine, and she rested her head against my shoulder as we both stared up at the canvas.
"You know, she wasn't the reason you paint." Jess said quietly, and I sighed, tearing my eyes away from my easel and down towards the cup in my hands. "It might have seemed so, but you didn't paint for her, you painted because of what she made you feel."
"I know," my voice was barely a whisper. I was afraid that if I raised it any higher, my voice would break and I would find the lump that was forming in my throat would force tears to my eyes. "But without her I don't feel anything."
"Oliver." Jess sat up and looked at me, her voice so commanding that I raised my head to meet her eye. "It's been weeks. She didn't just leave you, she cheated on you. Doesn't that make you angry?" She stood up and started pacing around the room. "Your best friend lied to you to help her cover it up." She picked up my paint stained palette and a tube of red paint, unscrewing the lid and squeezing some out. "That's betrayal." She picked up black paint, and added it to the palette, squeezing out far too much. The paint was expensive, and I wanted to stop her, so it wouldn't go to waste, but I remained where I was, silently watching her. "Yellow, for the spark the started your relationship, and blue, for the water that doused the flames out. White, the stars shining through the darkness that you feel, and orange, the sunrise finally coming up to greet you."
She took my hand, precariously balancing the paint filled palette in her other hand, and I leant down and placed my tea on the floor, reaching out and taking the palette from her before she dropped it and both stained the carpet, and wasted my paint. I couldn't afford to buy more, and I didn't want to lose the deposit we had put down when we first rented this place.
"Here," she handed me a brush. Not the one I would choose, but I took it, and stepped up towards the easel, staring down at the mismatched colours I had been presented with.
"You know, sometimes you seem like a normal person, and sometimes it really shows that you're a poet," I said over my shoulder and Jess snorted with laughter.
"Just paint, already," she said, and I stared at her for a moment, as she picked up my cup of tea from the floor and sipped it, screwing up her face at the lack of sugar.
"Fine." I turned back towards the easel, closing my eyes, and breathing out slowly. A flash of orange danced across the backs of my eyelids, and I opened my eyes again, dabbing my brush in the paint, and spreading it across the canvas.
Slowly, as the canvas was stained different colours, the emotions and feelings started to overlap in my brain and expressed themselves through the brush in my hand, my heart starting to thaw. A tear ran down my cheek as the black overtook the pink, the despair stamping out the love, and slowly, the reds of anger fought back.
And, slowly, the green made it's way onto the page. The green of Jess's eyes, spreading over the brown of my ex's eyes. And, slowly, a dash of pink made it's way back onto the canvas.
I stepped back, reaching up and rubbing the dried tears from my cheeks, and stared at the painting. I was certain that there was paint on my cheek, spread there from my hand, and another t-shirt was ruined, but my mind was reeling, colour after colour flowing freely through the riverbeds where they had before been dry.
I turned to face Jess, who was lying on my bed, a book open beside her, the pages creased against my duvet where her hand was pressing down on it, her eyes closed and her hair across her face as she slept.
And, slowly, my thawing heart started to flash pink again.
Done!
A poet and an artist, what better combination?!
To be fair, Jess wasn't even supposed to be in this story, she just appeared and refused to leave. I wasn't even the one who let her stay – Oliver took over and wouldn't let me get rid of her.
Do you ever think that sometimes, writers sound a little crazy when they talk about how their characters took control of the story?
...
Okay, I'll go.
Bye!
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