Daddy issues || h.s

3.0

He looked at the paint stains on the floor. Every single colour was represented; yellow, blue, red, purple, pink, black, white, green, and he wondered how long it had been since the first drop had fallen to the floor, and what colour it had been. Then he wondered if it really mattered, if it was important enough to remember, or if it was just one in the line of many. He wondered if the fact that it was forgotten meant that it had never really happened, or if the fact that it had happened meant that it was supposed to be forgotten. To him, it didn't really matter, because one of the stains on the floor had to be the first one, and if that one hadn't been there, none of the others would have been either. 

The paint splattered handle rested in his right hand. Once it had been clean, the white wood visible for him to see, now it was covered in colours, the layers so thick he could not see what was underneath.

He dipped it in paint, the purple colour seeping through the soft bristles of the brush. He lifted it, and before the colour could kiss the white canvas, a drop of paint fell to the floor and mingled with the rest. And although we may never know which drop was the first to fall to the floor, we all know which one was the last.

He stood there for hours, lost in his work, seeing the white of the canvas disappear beneath his brush. The sun seeped into the room, and he felt beads of sweat appear on his forehead. He lifted his hand to wipe it away, and left a blue line of paint all the way from his cheekbone to his ear.

Adelaide sat underneath the dead willow once again. But her mind was not focused on the mindless blabber of her friends. It was focused on something else indeed. 

The list in front of her was short, but it was newly written, and the blue ink still glistened on the white page. Her finger travelled down it, her mouth soundlessly wrapping around the names as she passed them. Some had been scribbled out and then been rewritten, while others were written with steady hand, her mind having been set from the moment the pen kissed the page. 

Her eyes moved from the list to another item in front of her. Intricate lines were drawn on it, red, blue and green, marking places she had never been before. It reminded her of the pale blue veins underneath the white skin of his neck, and she wished her lips were pressed against it.

She looked up at her friends. Every single one of them was wrapped up in the arms of the person they loved, and even though she knew she was supposed to be jealous of them, her heart was filled with nothing but happiness when she looked at them. 

Kieran's head lay in Leith's lap, and the blonde boy ran his fingers though the other boy's hair. A small smile rested in the corner of Kieran's mouth, and his eyes drooped lazily, as if he was about to fall asleep. 

Leah was resting her head on Jackson's shoulder, her hair falling into her eyes. Their hands were intertwined, and he rubbed small circles into the back of her hand. 

"Have you decided yet?" Leah asked her. 

Adelaide sat up and put the pen behind her ear. "Yeah, I mean, I'm not done quite yet, but I'm getting there." She said, looking down at the items in front of her.

"Then let's make a toast," Leith said. "Lets make a toast for Addie finally, almost, maybe having made up her mind." He picked up a bottle, the usual strawberry wine having been replaced by a bottle of cheap champagne for the occasion, and filled five teacups so full the sparkling liquid spilled over the edges. He passed them around, but just as everyone were raising their cups, Adelaide suddenly exclaimed: "No, Wait! I forgot something." Before bending over and writing another name, leaving a blue line on her cheek, travelling all the way from her cheekbone to her ear.

The blue line was still on her face when she came home that day, and the champagne still bubbled in her veins. The house was empty, not a sound emitting from the abandoned rooms. Her breathing was heavy from having biked home, and in the stillness of the house, the only music accompanying her up the stairs was the sound of her breath. She opened the door to her room, and then even her breathing stopped. 

Because in the corner, where an empty canvas had rested upon an old easel the day before, there now rested a newly painted canvas. And as she walked closer, her breath hitched in her throat like it did every time she saw his artwork, because there, on the canvas she had avoided painting for so long, he had painted his own version of her favourite painting: 'The Water Lilies – The Clouds' by Claude Monet. And on a note beneath it, he had written an address, accompanied by the words: Come find me.