She’s smiling. Her eyes are wide with bliss and her hand is quivering with exhilaration. Her heart is swelling and she feels like she would burst if she could. She clenches her eyes with joy in her hands and wonders if this thing of a world would pause just so she can compose herself.
She’s sitting in an open field on a tall, metallic stool. Wind is caressing her rosy pink cheeks as she smiles, welcoming the sun’s gentle rays to bask on her delicate face. Her auburn hair tumbles off her shoulders as she reaches her arms toward the rolling clouds, as if to say, “I’m here!” Around her grass grows endlessly, butterflies intertwine with vines of green, and flourishing flowers peak through patches of light, beads of dew glistening from gentle cosmic glimmers.
Directly in front of her is a blank canvas, open for her free mind to manipulate. The canvas is resting on an oak easel that is nestled in a tall patch of grass. There are a few paint brushes scattered on the easel’s underlying tray, as well as a palette of colors ranging from fire engine-red to the deepest of indigos. Her fingers trace along the minute weave of the canvas and a feeling of simplicity flushes over her, consuming her mindset and covering the deepest of facets in her supple soul. Felicity strikes her as normality in this reverie, where fields never end, smiles never cease, and art is an emotion.
Her mouth curves into a prolonged smile when she notices a man standing next to the easel. He greets her with a soft wave of his hand as his glowing brown hair tumbles in the breeze. The corners of his eyes crease and his lips widen to a smile and she jumps from the pure audacity of his gleam. Never has she felt more secure.
The man steps forward, dressed in a shirt and tie, and reaches for her hand. She willingly places her hand on top of his palm and he covers their secret bond with a laugh. He gently puts his free hand over hers and warmth radiates through her body, causing her to tingle at the realization that this is what she’s been fighting for.
An empty chair appears next to the one she is situated in and the man promptly sits, his grey eyes never leaving hers. She glances at him shyly then faces the blank canvas, her mind spinning with inspirations and adept thoughts on what to paint. He too gazes at the canvas, waiting for her ideas to blossom into the thriving masterpiece he knows she will create.
She reaches for a paint brush and dips it in the most passionate of colors – orange. It’s dark to show truth and individuality, but at the same time light to show hope and innocence. Normally, she would have chosen a mild yellow or pale lilac because taking chances wasn’t something she was used to doing. But as she sweeps her paint brush through the muddle of orange she feels liberated; finally a new beginning.
The bristles of the brush slowly pursue the threads of the canvas, politely asking permission to continue. She hesitates, peers at the man for assurance who then places his hand on her shoulder and winks, and purses her lips to stroke a crisp line against the eager canvas. She giggles as orange strikes against the stark white, thinking “nothing rhymes with orange,” just like how nothing in the reality of her life seemed to fit.
She shudders, realizing how she’s not afraid to be that girl again. She’s not afraid to fly, she’s not afraid to make beautiful mistakes, and she’s not afraid to grin wider than any time before because now she knows she’s someone different.
Sometimes it’s better to live in a world of make-believe than to live in a world where you know truths you shouldn’t and love people who don’t love you back. There were times in during her regular, wearisome life when she forgot why she was breathing out or why she was breathing in. There were times when she could not look in the mirror because she knew her tears were the only things she had left. There were times when tears burned her swollen eyes and it seemed like breaking down was the only “right” thing to do.
She commences her artistic emotions and allows them to pour through her eyes and fingertips. Her brush splashes oranges, reds, and yellows across the smooth canvas as the man beside her smiles like the moon against miles of night. Her eyes are bright and glamorous as she pauses to glance at her gorgeous surroundings and listen to the subtlest of sounds; the buzzing of an anxious bee and his friend the hummingbird, the swoosh of dozens of daises melting into their caressing winds, and the clicks and clacks of wild horses in the distance that create a melody of their own secret gossip.
Her surroundings enchant her deepest of fears and they spin in a wild fury to become captivating, free, and happy. She suddenly forgets how she struggled to smile for the prodding cameras when she felt huddled and alone, how dry her eyes seemed at the end of the day from the excessive escaping of her remorseful regret, and how she would whisper his name into her pillow when she was scared. She forgets how her name sounded as it bounded off his tongue and through his lips. She forgets how she saw her reflection in his eyes when he perched himself against her desk. She forgets every niche of him and gasps against the sun’s hopeful glow feeling incredible, open-minded, but most importantly, alive.
The brush dances with the canvas and kisses the paints. A world develops before her eyes as she continuously unleashes hidden emotions into a painting she has always dreamt of creating. She smiles profusely as she paints the scene in front of her; the perfection of it all. In her painting there is a fervent, orange sunset with a gradient so vast and aspiring it causes her to blush. There is a cliff, dazzled with sparkling evergreen-colored grasses, that ends in the center of the canvas, portraying the vibrant sunset on more levels. A woman is standing under a tree – a romantic weeping willow – and is staring into the oblivion of the day’s end. Though you cannot see the woman’s expression, you know she is smiling. The setting sun’s lower crest merges with oblique clouds and forms a heart-like silhouette, intangible and unapproachable from the woman’s reach. The painting is a masterpiece, filled with such emotional intensity it causes her heart to jump.
But a simple “jump” revives her peaceful mind and eloquent soul, and overcast sets in front of her wishful eyes. The paint brush slips from her fingers and topples to the tall, accepting grass; falling, falling, falling. She feels pain for the first time. She feels tears teeming in her eyes and her heart crackle under the humid air. And she feels the distinctive tremble of her small, pale hands when the realization that this can’t be real sets in.
Her eyes dart to the man seeking anything: a smile, an inspirational word, or guidance. His eyes linger on her lips then slowly creep to her eyes. He has absolutely no expression; no hint of emotion or meaning in his eyes, no creases on his lips or furrowed dimples on his cheeks. Her eyes widen with fear as the man’s eyes become familiar. Their hue, their shape and size strikes her as a mimic to someone she once knew. Then his lips look astoundingly proverbial to the memory of this same someone she recalls. Their tint, their curves and creases remind her of thousands of smiles. Finally, as his hair tussles with the wind, she can swear that his golden brown locks are exactly the same as someone she had painfully fond memories of.
Someone who kept her guessing every moment of every day. Someone who made her laugh when she wanted to cry. And someone who left her feeling stranded enough to believe that there is a land where make-believe is the truth.
Someone like Jim.
The man guiding her through this newfound peace is Jim – Jim. Pain strikes her perfect dream of what reality should be. Her smile vanishes beneath building layers of worry and Jim dissolves before her fearful eyes. Her painting – her majestic, beautiful painting – melts underneath the soft bristles of her unsteady brush, dissipating into the afternoon’s luminosity. Trees collapse, trembling against the cataclysmic ground and the once perky flowers blossoming around her sanctuary curl, descending toward the earth’s blazing core. Mountains disintegrate in her glossy vision, clouds rumble without ease and the sun drops, falling toward the oblivious celestial world it rose from. She stands, left with nothing, just the life she left behind.
She awakens abruptly, sterile air permeating the weak cavities of her lungs. Hospital sheets engulf her fragile limbs as she heaves in another unwanted breath. Her mind flutters to life as dread overcomes her elaborated truth. She feels her heart thump against her chest, each pulse a silent reminder of why she wanted to leave this thing she called “her life” in the first place.
Author's Chapter Notes:
She is beginning to understand that reality isn't as great as her make-believe.
Chapter End Notes:
Hopefully you have enjoyed this as much as I loved writing it! Coming up: Jim's side, then one final chapter to bring their stories together.
