3 weeks until graduation.
"Hello Students! Today is the last day of school for the senior class of 2023! As they leave, give them a round of applause, and wish them luck as they move into the future as adults in society."
I look over at Marc and laugh.
"Was it just me, or did the principal totally sound like he was gonna cry?"
"Not just you man. I heard it too."
I looked around the classroom and saw the faces of everyone I met this year. Someone stood on a desk and shouted a countdown from 5.
"FIVE! FOUR! THREE! TWO! ONE!"
After one, the entire class in unison said, "SCHOOLS OUT!!"
"Nate, are you doing anything today?" Emma asked.
"Uh… yeah, a little work to finish my painting tonight, but I will be free after that."
With that, I packed up my bag and put it over my shoulder, saying bye to Emma, and squeezed my way through the busy halls.
I went into the supply closet in the art room and grabbed a dirty apron. It was almost black because of how many colors and stains were smeared over its previously white fabric. I grabbed a cup full of brushes: fine, thick, long, and short. I grabbed a cup of water and 3 sets of paint: water color, acrylic, and oil.
Hurriedly, I rushed over to my station, and put out a canvas stand. I went back into the closet and fetched my canvas, which was covered by a large white sheet.
I unveiled it to myself and instantly started to get to work.
I put myself in a trance.
It was as though my hand moved on its own.
Left and right.
Up and down.
I walked around the room, pacing around.
Paint.
I adjusted the painting closer to the open light, seeing how it looked at different angles.
I stepped back and narrowed my vision.
Left Eye. Right Eye.
I put my finger on the brush, and stepped back a little further. I splattered white oil paint on the painting.
Speckles of white landed on top of the other layers, and reacted like a drop of water landing in the sea.
No run.
No drip.
It stayed exactly where it was placed.
I took a large brush, a wide one you'd imagine someone like Picaso holding. I took it in my hand and swiped it through a bucket of thick blue oil paint.
Wipe.
Wipe.
Wipe.
Wipe.
I rinsed the brush and grabbed the white paint.
Wipe.
Wipe
Wipe.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
I felt my heart beating out of my chest.
Badump.
Badump.
Badump.
Heart– Hear–
Heart– Heart–
Heart. Heart–
Heart.
I grabbed a thin brush, dipped it in white watercolor, and drew a faint heart in a white portion. It dripped over the thick dry oil paint.
Just a little more… Just a little more…
* * *
Blue.
Green.
White.
Color.
Color.
Color.
Color.
I've wondered for a while now… am I the only one?
Am I the only one who sees what I see?
Am I the only one who wonders that?
When I look at this painting… when I look at the sky… when I look everywhere around me. All I see now, is colors.
It's fantastic.
Magnificent.
Spectacular.
A bright loud flashy symphony of orchestral strings and winds blow my ear drums, as I'm smothered by a flashing explosion of color and paint.
I walked away from the canvas in front of me, slowly as my head pans from the ground to the top of the canvas.
Yes.
A feeling similar to loneliness washed over me.
It was heavy.
Blue.
I saw blue.
It's done.
It's finally done.
"FUCK!!" I screamed through the halls.
After that, I started to laugh.
At first it was a small chuckle. Simply a laugh you would make when someone in class says a funny joke. But then, the laugh became louder, and more aggressive. Before I knew it I was rolling on the ground in a puddle of paint, laughing hysterically.
"Ha, ha, ha, hahaha, hahaha! I've done it!"
I looked at my hands. They were drenched in paint. Covered up to the knee in whites, blues, and greens.
There was a red coating on the tips of my fingers.
I couldn't tell if it was blood or paint.
Either way, I should use it.
I took my finger, and on the back of the canvas, I smeared a rough signature.
NaTe James!
5/11/22
"I want to thank my teachers, my best friend Marc, I want to thank my mom for raising me, even though my dad was a piece of shit. I wanna thank my amazing, beautiful, smart, funny, kind, strong, and perfect girlfriend for being the main drive behind this piece. I want to thank my…"
I trailed off, rambling about nonsense.
"Hey, you gotta get going."
I turned around and saw Mr. Smith was leaning on the door frame.
"It's for your girlfriend? She's gonna love it."
"Yes sir, I… I, uh, I really hope she does."
"When are you gonna show it to her?"
"Graduation."
"Yeah. I hope… I hope my feelings reach her."
"They'll reach her bud… they'll reach her."
He put his arm over my shoulder and gave me a pat on the head.
"You did good Nate. Keep doing good."
"Yes sir."
' * * * '
"Hey Mom."
"Yes sweetie?"
"Um… if anything happens… I want you to call Nate… okay?"
"..."
She looked at me with a solemn look in her eyes.
"Mom, don't… don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like all those fucking doctors! Like I'm weak– I'm not weak! I'm–"
I fell to my knees and felt a tightness in my chest.
"Sweetie, calm down…"
"I am calm… Okay? I'm calm."
"Mom… just promise me that."
"... fine…"
"Mom… I'm going to write a note– just in case. Can you… can you give it to him if I don't wake up?"
"Yeah… sure honey."
"Thanks mom…"
"No problem…"
We stood there, grabbing clothes and outfits to put in a bag to pack for the hospital in silence.
"So honey… this Nate… what's he like?"
"He's…"
Nate…
He's everything to me.
"He's like the sweetest, smartest, funniest, cutest guy there is. He was there for me no matter what happened. Unlike everyone else, he didn't run away when he found out I was sick. He stayed by my side. He helped me make friends. He helped me become more of myself. He helped me fall in love."
"Sweetie…"
She smiled sweetly and I saw tears welling up in her eyes.
"Oh mom… don't, don't cry. No, no, no, it's okay…"
"My baby girl's all grown up…"
"Mom…"
I wrapped my arms around her and started to feel myself cry with her.
"I don't want to die."