he's a portrait {frerard}

Art; 7

After I told Athony everything and explained all about me -almost all about me- I felt slightly exposed. Not literally, but as if he knew all about me and would ruin me. Like when you tell someone your biggest secret and the next day they betray you and tell everyone.

But he wouldn't do that, would he?

In the end I kept craving his presence and a coffee, so I ended up calling him at 3 P.M. hoping he wouldn't be in a bad mood or not want to see me, but from the instant expression in his voice when I called him, I could tell he was excited.

He couldn't have been very fed up since it had been about three days since we last seen each other. I was getting tired of my beige walls and lazy sketches anyway. Mozying around and my mind on Anthony the entire three days. About how he lives his life being a famous artist and what his schedule concludes of. Does he worry about things like making up new art? Or if he'll visit the gallery tomorrow- that was nonsense, he visits every day. I wasn't too sure why, though. There were many things left unknown about him and today I was planning to know some of those things, hopefully without seeming nosy.

I know I tend to be too curious and get in too deep, but I'm not as terrible as most people in Jersey.

It even unsettles me that Anthony would talk of himself like that -it just didn't make sense for someone so incredible to feel so down on themself. And I was destined to help him, to figure out how he started seeing the world so negatively. Even himself -however he got to thinking that putting himself down would be a good life style. It also might be good, but could be considered the only one you know how to live. And just don't feel like trying to create a new one.

I just want him to realise that he's important to at least someone. But maybe attention from one person isn't enough; but for him I can bargain it is. Some people want attention from many, but others settle for less; and either way, there's no room to complain about the other.

I tucked on my coat over a worn out sweatshirt with The Beatles logo on it and a crumpled five dollar bill -feeling confident to pay for my coffee with my own money that comes from just selling art. No, all my money I use comes from when I sell art. It's only a few dollars that I spend on other essentials besides paying bills and buying food.

It being the beginning of December, there was a slight heavier snowfall than just three days ago. Most people are so hateful of things that make them uncomfortable -like the cold, the snow, the heavy layers of clothing- and because of that, they never realise how beautiful it all looks.

I wonder if Anthony is thinking the same thing. Does he enjoy Winter, Christmas, the snowfall? Does he like meeting with his family and possibly opening presents? Why does it even matter?

I walked up toward the usual cafe we come to and notice that he's sitting down in the seats by the window. He's wearing a black sweater, but with a white formal shirt underneath, to wear the cuffs of the white shirt come out from the neckline and ends of the sweater.

I would be lying if I didn't say he looked adorable.

And he truly did, he looked calm and relaxed, leaned back and curious eyes glazing out the window. His black hair had been tossed around and he looked so alluring. Almost easy to come up and scare, very peaceful, yet awaiting. Waiting for me.

I almost didn't wasn't to disturb him, but I decided it better to walk over than stare at him for five more minutes.

As I sat down I took off my coat and let myself take in his presence as he gave me a small smile. His lips curling perfectly and his eyes giving a soft happy glow that I rarely saw. I think it was only when we were with each other. Other times, like at the gallery or me just watching him, he didn't look happy. Or sad. More of just boredom. And even the small things like his perfect alligned teeth or the light pink color that covered his cheeks at times.

"Hi," he said quietly, cocking an eyebrow at my staring.

"Hey," I replied, smiling at him. "How have you been?"

"It's only been three days," he said, letting out a strangled chuckle.

"Still," I mumbled.

"It's been fine," He answered, taking a drink from his coffee. He waited quietly, almost like he was wanting me to carry on the conversation. "I'm guessing you want to know more about me?"

I nodded shyly, not wanting to seem too eager or even bored. I was excited to know more about Anthony.

"Well, uh... I obviously do art as a living, but... that's not exciting enough." He scratched at the back of his neck, scrunching his face up in question. "My family lives in Kearny and I love dogs. Suprisingly, the worst thing that ever happened to me is when I got kicked out of college. It might have been involved with my parents -the worst thing in my life. Yeah, it just is. I don't really like my parents."

What could his parents have done? Argue, hit him, talk down to hit? It would atleast explain why he thinks so low of himself. "How come?" I asked quietly.

"They just don't like me," He mumbled, seeming more upset but the facade disappeared when he rolled his eyes and shook his head a little. "It doesn't bother me," He assured quickly, probably noticing my upset expression. "There's no reason to care, it's not a big deal."

I nodded, hesitant and still unsure, but nodded.

And so he told me a lot about himself and his depressed mom who smoked and about his dad who would never achieve go be a big musician. About his upsetting family fitugue. I would probably fit in quite nicely.

He explained his points and why he sees everything as upsetting and no point. That not one person could make a difference because there are simply many people born -yes, all of them may make a big impact- but none of them will do something too spectacular like ending world hunger or coming to peace. If the world were too peaceful, there wouldn't be room for chaos, therefore, there would be no creativity. And how would you have art with no creativity and too much sane to spark things up and dig into the dark corners of everyone's minds.

It's even that most people don't make an effort -simply because there's no point in trying.

There were points in his examples that I did disagree with, but I didn't tell him, because these were his opinions and even though I probably might not be able to change them, I could at least make him smile

He told me how death would be easier than having to deal with the pain of wasting your life and knowing that you mean nothing.

But he does.

God, does he mean something.

He means absolutely everything.

And at that point, I couldn't listen to his rambles, because of how much I weren't able to truly connect.

Because for me he meant everything, I was just mostly upset how he weren't able to notice. I know he cares about me (I'm sure he does at this point), and that means everything to me. I just wish he would let me care about him the same way.

I always caught the small moments when he would bite his lip ring, or hesitate and then suddenly answer. The parts where he would pick at the skin around his fingernails or make hand gestures. Even his green orbs, with those few flakes of brown. Just gorgeous.

He had propped his elbows on the table resting his head in his hands and I couldn't help but notice how his sleeves drifted down slightly and the red marks that poked out.

It was like my breathing had stopped and I was choked up by this simple sight. This scared me, scared me even more than the thought of dying.

Why would he? How could he? How could he hate himself to the pushing point of harming himself and truly considering bleeding out and never seeing a light of sunshine once again?

And it hurt me more, it picked at my heart and toyed with my emotional state. Seeing how truly miserable he was and how hard he worked to cover it up. How much the red stuck out and even some looked infected or new.

"Gerard?" He mumbled and I instantly averted my gaze, looking exactly right into his eyes.

"I'm fine."

But I wasn't.

For the second time in my life I was truly terrified.