Maya Wilkins's life turns upside down the day her sister commits suicide. With emotions overwhelming her every moment, she feels herself drowning in the chaos of memories and an uncertain future.
Trying to escape the sudden limbo her life is suspen...
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08 | DRAW
IF I COULD,
I WOULD DRAW YOU ALL DAY.
Pushing away the strand of hesitation that fell in my mind, I let my room door swing open. With my shoulders forced back in a display of my superficial confidence, I strutted into the chaos I called my room.
The alluring scent of paint filled my nose, bringing a sense of calm I didn't know I was yearning.
Just as I heard the door close behind me with a soft thud, a slow realization dawned on me. The fact that I was going to expose the creations of my soul made my knees buckle. An odd sense of vulnerability took over my mind, fearing the scrutiny my works might experience.
Trying to regain my composure, I quickly took a seat on my bed. "So, this is my haven," I said, leaning back on my arms in a forced posture of calmness. "You can have a look around if you want."
I had to bite back my tongue before I could take my words back. Taking a deep, calming breath, I let my eyes search Maya's face for any sign of attention to my distress.
As if struck by lightning, Maya got fixed on her spot in the middle of the room. Her eyes roamed over every nook and cranny, taking in every shade my works had to offer. Her eyes were glistening with unshed tears, but the glazed look of her gaze told me she was unaware of her reaction. Too deep in the pool of memories to notice the ripples on the surface.
Finally, when my words filtered into her mind, Maya gave in to her curiosity and walked up to a shelf filled with my early paintings. Her movements were slow and cautious, as if she feared tipping anything off the equilibrium.
Pulling out a canvas, she ran her fingers over its surface. Maya intently fixed her eyes on the artwork, tracing every ridge and dip of paint. When moments of her explorations turned to minutes, I felt a slight unease settle in my stomach.
"These are some of my older paintings," I chimed in, feeling the urge to explain the lack of finesse in that work. "They are not that great." My finger curled into my bed sheets, feeling a rush of trepidation wash over me. I could feel my heart slamming against my chest and the slight hitch of my breath.
While my earlier paintings were far from remarkable, filled with flaws to the brim, they held a special place in my heart. They were the display of my intense emotions and my outlook on the world in the darkest days of my life. Those paintings were my escape, giving me the freedom to make a land perfect for me. So, letting Maya study them was an intimate act for me.
Maya was quiet the whole time she analyzed the canvases, pausing over a few for more than a minute. By now, I had managed to cage the monster of my worry in the back of my mind, away from the reach of my heart.
"Why isn't the sky blue in any of these paintings?" Maya questioned, looking over her shoulder.
The simple question drew an involuntary flinch from me, making me frown. But noticing the curious look Maya threw my way, I schooled my expression to an unreadable mask. I forced a smile on my lips, feeling my face pull in rebellion against my actual feelings. "Where's the fun in that?" My reply was breathy as I pushed up from my spot on the bed.
