WP EXCLUSIVE | old/unedited | #1 in freetheboy, traumacore, boyscrytoo, and cynicism | Genre(s): realistic, psychological, new adult fiction.
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Eighteen-year-old Tyler Petrit is tired. He's tired of his drug-addicted father always blaming him f...
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JANUARY
I was seven years old when my love for art blossomed.
It was mid-winter. The harsh winds made my house creak and groan. Everything was bare, void of any real color or life, even on TV, until I flipped to PBS. Being young, anything with bright colors caught my attention.
Bob Ross' paintings were no exception.
His soft and encouraging voice, combined with how he could so easily create a masterpiece from the same few colors over and over, was mesmerizing.
"Anybody can paint. All you need is a dream in your heart and a little practice."
And I believed him.
I got my small easel and case of paint (a set of previously neglected birthday gifts), trying to catch up with him during commercials. I didn't understand how to layer the colors, but I knew how to paint trees.
Dad stumbled through the door with a case of alcohol in the midst of the mess I was making. I was covered head to toe in paint. He looked at the TV and me. "What the hell are you doing, boy?"
"I'm an artist!" I shouted gleefully.
He examined my canvas. "Doesn't look like much of anything."
"The guy on TV says it is."
"They call it an Idiot Box for a reason. You shouldn't believe everything you hear."
I didn't care, though. I tuned into The Joy of Painting every week after that, until I drifted more into drawing.
I don't have to draw Alaska for her to be art. She's got skin the color of coffee beans, starry almond eyes, and full lips fit for a wide smile.
She's absolutely stunning.
The air weighs heavy over us. We're sitting on the bleachers after school, huddled together in the cold. I have a loose grip on my pencil, applying the finishing touches.
Alaska presses her cheek against my shoulder. "...What is it?"
"Just something that I made up," I mutter. I don't even know what it is, this demon thing with wide, puffy eyes, stringy hair, and gangly limbs. "It's not one of my best." I crumble the paper and shove it into my jacket pocket.
I usually reserve drawings like this for when I need something more than medication, to unleash my demons onto paper after I spiral from anxiety or a depressive episode. They're always made up of scribbles more than any discernible shape and hidden in the last pages of my sketchbook. I don't let anyone see them, either. They're not meant to.
It's different this time. The pain in my stomach is sharper, snaking up my spine and stabbing my brain. I take the drawing out of my pocket, unfolding it just to tear it up.
