How to Paint Our Skies

Dear Fin,

    I don't know how it happened, but somehow I ended up painting you today.  It was torture, seeing your beautiful face upon my canvas, the only thing truly giving me hope nowadays. I hated myself for always trying to ruin everything good in my life by remembering the bad.

    Somehow, I found myself screaming at your picture, shrieking every curse word I had ever known. And I grabbed the black paint and the thickest paint brush I could find.

     I didn't even bother with trying to be neat or organized as I struck your face time and time again with the paint brush. And suddenly, you smile was gone. And your nose. Your cheekbones, you hair . . . and then all that was left of you were your eyes. They're in a square of color, while everything was steaks of sloppy black.

    Tears washed down my cheeks and my heart threatened to shatter, but I couldn't ruin your eyes. Because they're the only thing I truly had left of you.

    I hate you for ruining the only thing that has ever made me feel special. I'm also in love with you for being the first person to even make me feel special.

    When did things get so complicated, Fin?

    Encounter Number Forty Two:

    You had wrapped a tie over my eyes, using it as a makeshift blindfold. Your hands were on my back, pushing me forward; you're my eyes in my blindness, my light in the darkness. I could hear my father's voice, too, chattering politely as we strolled along. I had no idea why my father was here with us.

    I hadn't been expecting you this afternoon, when you arrived at my house, but regardless I was happy to see you. I wasn't so happy when you grabbed the tie, but I agreed to it nonetheless. Soon, my father had joined us.

    Soon, we found stairs and you helped me step down them.

    Suddenly, we stopped.

    A door opened

    One more step.

    You ripped off my blindfold.

    The room was white, white, white. The walls and the floors all gleamed with the brilliance of the colorlessness, yet there was no furniture in this room. I recognized it as one of our guestrooms, the only one in the basement, but . . . what happened to it?

    "Fin here told me you that you liked art," Dad said. "And since we have so much extra space in the house, I thought that you might like to have a space to work in. One that you can call your own, apart from your room. You can . . . well; you can do whatever you want in here."

    There was silence.

    "You ma-made me a-an ar-art ro-room?" I squealed. 

    Dad just nodded.

    I had no idea why I started crying.

    End of Encounter Number Forty Two.

   Encounter Number Forty-Eight:

   We're in my art room. I found myself in there so much, my love for the room threatening to devour any aspects of my social life. You found it cute, you said, though; so we found ourselves spending more and more time in there together.

    I was painting a picture of a daisy. I didn't really know why, I had just an itch in my fingers that couldn't be removed without painting.

    But today was different because you're restless. As I painted, you constantly were at my side, placing kiss after kiss upon my skin, touching me in the most distracting of ways. Your touch was hypnotic . . . and distracting.