Sometimes, trying to find originality is like trying to find a needle in a haystack; or a four leaf clover. To be original was not the main objective of Aidan’s painting though. He needed to convey to everyone his pain. Words were not his friend and, more often than not, they failed him. His art however, gave him the upper hand. Wincing in pain after having to rearrange his canvas into the small square of natural light allowed through the blinds in the “living room” of his studio flat, he downed a large glass of Irish whiskey. Self medication, he thought with a small but satisfied grin. The alcohol might not have been numbing the physical discomfort of his injuries but was doing wonders for depleting his memory, albeit temporarily. It came back in crippling waves and surges.
The artwork was the only thing left behind to prove his anguish; to show the people involved how much Aidan regretted his actions. The whiskey amalgamated with numerous prescription drugs and as the thirty year old lay collapsed on his bed in the early hours of the morning, he knew he would no longer have to answer the questions or live with the guilt.
