Scars (Ziam)

The Dandelion

Chapter 8:

We parked outside of what seemed to be a vacant, abandoned warehouse. Zayn grabbed the two bags of food and climbed out of the car. I followed after him warily, glancing up at the eerie warehouse, though Zayn didn't seem the slightest bit fazed by its appearance. Of course not. This must be his art studio he spoke of.

I followed him to the big wooden door, and he unlocked a padlock before sliding it open. It was dark inside. It felt terribly cold and it smelled like a mixture of paint and musk. I stepped inside slowly, barely able to make out the outlines of various pieces of canvas strewn around the room. Zayn stepped inside as well and flicked a light switch.

Multiple fluorescent lightbulbs slowly turned out, burning dimly at first and then painting the room in bright light. It was then that I could fully take in everything around us.

The walls of the warehouse were dark and bare. They were wooden, just like the huge sliding door, and there were dozens upon dozens of paintings hung up on, or leanong against, them to dry. I stepped closer to the wall, lifting my hand up to touch it, and the wood even felt cold. I shivered slightly, vaguely aware of the fact that Zayn walked over to turn on a heater in the room.

I turned from the wall and looked at the enormous opened room. The warehouse was massive on the inside, and Zayn didn't waste an inch of space. In the middle of walls full of paintings and sketches, there were tables lined up and filled with various paints and brushes and pencils and pastels and rulers and canvas and sketchpads and so much more. To my untrained eye, everything seemed messy and disorganized, but I knew that someone like Zayn must have a method to his madness.

I walked over to the tables and picked up one of the sketchpads. It was opened up on a page that contained a sketch of some type of bird with a feather of another in its mouth. It was drawn very well, and the detail was incredible. I briefly wondered if Zayn had ever been so close to a bird to sketch even the finest of details on its wings. I turnes the page and found another sketch. This one was of an old woman being helped along by a little girl. The woman's face was thankful but emaciated. The little girl seemed oblivious to anything as she excitedly tugged on the woman's hand. It was remarkable, and I wondered why he decided to draw it.

The rest of the pages were exactly the same. There was one wonderful drawing after another, each one telling a different story or depicting an action that must've occurred before his eyes. The drawing that caught my eye, however, was one of a boy drowning, his figure shown through the waves of the clear water, with his hand sticking straight up, begging for help. There didn't seem to be any signal that someone was coming. He seemed stuck all alone. It felt so real and raw that I found myself holding my breath and jumping when I felt a light touch on my shoulder.

I turned around to see Zayn smiling sheepishly at me.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to surprise you. I figured we could eat while I show you some of the things I'm working on." He gestured over to where he cleared a table and set down our food on top. We decided to just grab some burgers and fries. Zayn paid for it all, and even though I knew I couldn't afford it, I still felt like I should have tried harder to pay for it instead.

I lowered my face to the ground again and nodded. "Sounds good."

I followed behind Zayn to the table of take out, and we both picked up some burgers and fries before walking over to the wall of the warehouse. We walked passed several paintings before Zayn stopped in front of one. I looked up at it and saw a painting of a girl with flowing black hair that seemed to blow in the wind. She was holding onto a dandelion and all of the seeds were being blown away in the wind. As the seeds blew away, I noticed that the dandelion was growing yellow again underneath. The colours were dull compared to the yellow of the new dandelion, and I understood that the painting was meant to convey some aspect of hope.