[ Eight Years Ago ]
Nolan: Age 17
The bells on my family's store entrance chimed.
A warning.
I gazed over my shoulder as autumn's breeze whipped through my cropped hair and witnessed the door of the fence surrounding our property blow open. It was nearly funny how the wind could emulate an oppressive person I knew. Someone who also blew through barriers that were meant to remain closed.
Our home sat above our pottery store, and I'd been painting the entrance since the previous coat was chipping. I used to like painting, but when I was ordered to do it as often as I was, the colorful strokes became meaningless.
Listening to the bells' warning, I gathered my brushes and bucket of paint. I quickly approached the far left of the property, where clay pots were drying since our furnace needed repairing. Some were already hardened, the rigid surfaces ready to be sanded and painted.
