Blood-red paint was splattered on Maddie's fair face, like petals of a rose strewn beautifully on her young face. Her eyes were shut tightly, her body flat on the wooden floor.
The paintbrushes were scattered on the coarse sisal mats, the canvas deepened with bursting shades of green and yellow and blue, surging forth confusedly like a calvary marching into battle with a headless general in tow.
Maddie opened her eyes. Her green eyes shifted to the canvas. She quickly sat up and crossed her feet. Rubbing her chin, she examined the befuddling scene on the canvas, displeasure faintly worming into her gaze.
Picking up a thin paintbrush, she strode over to the canvas and sat herself down on the stool. Her finger lingered some inches from the canvas, not motioning forwards or backwards, but merely remaining stationary for a long moment.
Nothing... There's nothing.
. . .
I cleared my throat and stood up from the stool. Quietly, I arranged the art tools scattered on the floor. I hadn't done painting for years but the passion to create had never left me. In fact, it had grown and constantly threatened to burst forth onto the canvas.
I had been frightened by this urge and tempted.
However, now that I finally relented, there was nothing in my mind. Or rather, I could think of nothing to transplant onto the canvas or anything to give form. I paused. I was holding a sketch pad from my greener years-back when I still resided with my parents in the metropolis.
I sat down on the floor again and glossed through the sketch pad. The white pages were varnished with ecstatic pencil strokes that fabricated a feeble imitation of form.
I had genuinely engrossed myself in art from a young age-perhaps even younger. I recall pulling my parents to art galleries and exclaiming at resplendent artworks from atop my father's shoulders. I could vaguely picture my mother's smile as she held my hand...my stubby hand lifting longingly towards the masterpiece taller than life itself and my father's coarse, wide palm ruffling my dark hair...
In a daze, I wordlessly stared into the air in the studio for a moment.
A cool breeze filtered in the fresh scent of snow from the frozen environs outside. The scene through the window was a range of gurgling blue and grey ravines, deep, shadowy valleys, and tall cliffs, all looked down upon by towering, snow-capped mountains. The features entangled and intertwined with the thriving forest, conspiring to leave me breathless.
Breathless, huh?
I reminisced a certain gorgeous and formidable official who had left me breathless only three months earlier.
Yes, it had already been three months since I took off from the capital and cornered myself in this calm countryside cottage, deep in the mountains.
The air in the green and white hinterlands changed with each season. It was winter and the air was crisp and biting, engulfing me in an impalpable cocoon of emotion.
How time flies so radically, I thought to myself distantly, picking up a mechanical pencil.
Images of my encounter with Abel Donovan lapsed through my mind's eye, lining up like a film. I had already opened a blank page in my ancient-looking sketch pad. My pencil began moving by itself, fluidly, as though my slender fingers were not in control.
The feel of his strong arms was hard and...something else... I paused, looking at what I had drawn in a matter of seconds. Cursing in my mind, I slumped back onto the floor indolently, peering at the light brown ceiling.
Was I really going to draw that man? I asked myself doubtfully.
A voice answered, Yes, why not?
But... that's demeaning!
I couldn't quite grasp what I was trying to say myself, but, yes, no matter how bizarre, that's how it felt. Demeaning. I felt that by casting his image into a tangible form I was surrendering to a certain emotion. My gaze shifted to the page I had earlier opened. There was a thin, semi-circular curve, like the edge of a blade, marring the white of the paper.
Though it was just a simple line on a paper, my eyes were already filling in the negative space with lively strokes and shapes, devising a vital form.
My eyes flashed with animated light and I nervously picked up the pencil again. Before I knew it, I was already mindlessly shifting the pencil over the paper.
I would stop momentarily and hold the sketch pad away from me, tilting my head slightly as I examined my work. By the time I was done, a full hour and a half had elapsed, albeit it was a mere sketch. However, when I gazed at it, the word sketch barely suited it. Rather than a sketch, it seemed to be quite an impressive artwork that carried dazing voidness in its body. It was like an empty tin can, and I needed to fill it.
Still... A smile creased my face, no longer feeling it to be demeaning since I was very delighted with the terminal product. It appeared that only by facing my fears could I break down boundaries inhibiting my path.
I observed it a little longer and tried to think of anything I could add. However, there was nothing I could think of. Even if I seriously took up the challenge of drawing Abel Donovan, I don't think the final result would be any different from what lay before me.
Of course, as compared to the real person, this rough 'sketch' was miles away. I suddenly doubted whether that person was truly drawable. I mean, his features were fringing flawless; can anyone truly draw perfection? Wouldn't that make the artwork itself perfect?
I smiled at the thought and produced my phone from my pocket. I had turned it off after coming to live in my mother's unoccupied cottage, but now there was a cause to turn it on.
The moment it was on, numerous notifications and messages made the quiet studio suddenly fill with buzzes.
Most of the notifications were due to emails from sites I had previously subscribed to. The messages were from my sisters and some unrecognizable numbers...
I ignored all of this and took a quick photo of my sketch of Mr. Donovan. The lighting was just right, so the picture came out perfectly. I sent it to an old acquaintance, expecting a swift reply.
I waited for a while - I think it might have been around half an hour before there was a message from my friend, Damon.
Damon: Holy shit! Bro, which old master drew this? Please send me their number ASAP!
I paused before I replied.
<
Damon: Are you sure? Didn't you become some Buddhist in the mountains and embroil in yourself in gaining enlightenment?
<
Damon: What do I think? Well, bro, It's amazing. But also... it's difficult to just call it, simply, 'amazing'-it induces a feeling of guilt in me to do so since it seems to have something added-a sense of animation and frigidity. It reminds me of ice, you know. Who is this person, by the way? They look familiar...
< Damon: The one with the long name? This is him? < Damon: Wow. From news articles, he always impressed an image of an old man with a lot of white hair and the sternest face in the kingdom...kinda like my elder brother. I never expected he would be so tall, dark, and...um, tall. < Damon: It would be a crime for someone who looks like this not to be tall. < Damon: But how did you meet him? And don't lie to me. These details can't be gotten from mere online materials, those things aren't very reliable when it comes to government dogs, especially those of Abel Donovan's caliber. < Damon: Alright, but don't get involved too much with things not within your control. < Damon: Um...so...ah, never mind. Thanks for sharing this! Are you sure you're not going to take up art seriously? I bet you could make some good money from it. <<...I'm not sure. Things haven't been working quite well for me. I'm living alone, so my expenses are relatively little, but the cash is still spilling out, you know, so I need a stable source of income.>> Damon: Well, tell me if you ever need anything. There's no need to suffer when you have a friend who can help. < Damon: Okay. Whatever you say, bro. < Damon: Comme-ci, comme-ca. < Damon: I'll tell you if anything comes up. < . . . I put my phone aside and opened another blank page on my sketch pad. Wordlessly, I tried to envisage any other scene which I could bring into form, and, esoterically, dozens of fragmented images lapsed through my mind. However, only that single, masculine figure appealed to me. Oddly, I only wanted to draw him. Picking up the pencil, I again began drawing him. This time, my strokes were more certain, my breath even as I forged his form from memory with my nerves pulled taut. In between, I seemed to have lost control over my hands and I was moving only out of instinct and intuition, fumbling in the dark for that poised figure that had pressed firmly against me. His strong jaw and his deep, dark eyes... Hands tightly gripping mine, fingers intertwining...cold, austere words escaping his thin, covetous lips...his chest heaving upwards gently against a certain delicate part...his lustrous dark hair...his silky voice... Sweat dripped down my spine. I produced my handkerchief from my pocket and briskly mopped my damp forehead. I breathed heavily as I gazed down at his figure. The figure which I had somehow duplicated, though frayed at the edges. His abyssal black eyes were staring deeply into mine; his black hair was just as I remembered it, neat and dark without a single strand out of place. I looked at my earlier sketch and this one and compared them for a while. After a long moment, I concluded that the second was more exquisite but still lacked something essential-or several somethings, that is. I found it odd. I was comparing two sketches of the same person. I brushed the thought away and picked up my phone to take a photo. I sent the photo to Damon. Damon didn't reply. I waited for a while longer, but there was no reply at all. I wondered comically if he had been too amazed to reply. As I was speculating this, however, a notification from a news website I had subscribed to, made my phone buzz noisily. Usually, this meant that it was a very important article that was mentioning me. I had set it to respond vehemently to articles which mentioned me or 'Mona Lisa Art Thief' which was my nickname back when I still partnered with Darius. I curiously pressed on the notification. A short line of text with the image of my two sketches at the end fell into view. It read, in bold letters: << CHECK THIS OUT! (IMAGES OF MY TWO SKETCHES INPUTTED) AWESOME, RIGHT? My friend, Madison Long, drew them. And the person drawn is the head of the Royal Bureau of Investigation. I always thought he looked older though. (smiley face with a toothy grin) >> It had been published online only thirty seconds earlier but was already gaining ground-breaking views. I nearly crushed my phone in my fist, amid my anger. My beloved Damon, what happened to 'there's no need to suffer when there's a friend who can help'? Did you mean that friends are the ones to cause each other suffering? I swiftly and sporadically sent him a jabbing message with the article attached. < Damon: Oh, yeah, that's my post on the internet! < Damon: It's because they are amazing. Why else? < Damon: I know what you're going to say... But you sent me the photos, didn't you? < Damon: And you didn't mention anything about 'not posting them online', did you? < Damon: So, technically, I am not liable to receive any forms of expletives. ... I was at a loss for words. I gave up on arguing and could, henceforth, only watch helplessly as the number of views doubled and tripled by the minute until finally, the article was among the top ten hottest searches online. My only hope was that the aftermath would not disturb my quiet life in the mountains. But my hopes were dashed the very next day, early in the morning.