The Pink Portrait, Ch. One

One

I was walking through a forest that reminded me remarkably of one of the hiking trails that surrounded my house. There was water rushing at the bottom of a small cliff, but no sound escaped the whiteness of the restless creek. Every tree I passed was like a dark veil, doing their best to hide secrets from my eyes with their interweaving branches that did little to muffle the whispers of the night.

Night. Was it night? The sky possessed no features seen in the southeastern wilderness of Ohio. The light was too soft even for the silent beauty of the moon, yet there was no source. And none of the constellations that normally blanketed the black void were present. There was nothing.

As I walked, the darkness had begun to engulf me and the whispers grew stronger, but remained incoherent. It was more of an unremitting, breathy drone that only filled my soul with terror.

Coming out of my reverie, I watch my paintbrush as it dances along a twenty-four by thirty inch canvas. I strategically alternate between soft, free-flowing strokes to rough, jagged strokes as the whiteness of the canvas continues to disappear behind the somewhat strong scent of oil. While I do pay very close attention to everything that I am doing to the canvas, my mind is also carefully interpreting the dream that woke me up from a deep sleep barely an hour ago.

Why the featureless sky? What was that supposed to represent? A river with no sound, however distorted it might be as sound can sometimes be in the bottomless realms that are our dreams? And why would voices be so terrifying? Well, I think it was the voices that brought me awake, as darkness doesn’t frighten me even in dreams. So what made it a nightmare? Then again, most of my dreams are unpleasant to the point that I wake up at undesirable times. Now I am just remedying the terror that interrupted what could have been solid eight to nine hours of sleep the best way I know how—paint.

As the painting comes to a finish, I take a step back and inspect the whole. The most dominant color is a hazy dark green that fades into blue towards the top of the canvas. Everywhere there are crisscrossing tangles of black that blend so well with the green that I worry that someone who is not accustomed to this kind of art would think this an incoherent splotch of color. The only “brightness” in this painting are slight fragments of light green that I did my best to blend with the green haze to the point that one faded into the other similar to the different values of charcoal sketches. The most astonishing part of this work of art is that the only colors I selected from my paint cabinet are blue, yellow, and of course, black and white.

Satisfied with my handiwork, I set the painting out to dry and clean up my painting supplies. It is a grueling effort cleaning oil paint from paintbrushes, but there is a downside to just about every type of art. When I finally finish that task, I decide to call it quits.

I take off my paint-stained white shirt that I always use when I paint and hang it up on a clothesline near the window that dominates one whole side of the room. I take a moment to gaze out and enjoy the scenery. The window is smeared with rainwater from the storm that I guess came to a stop while I was painting, but I can still see everything that the view has to offer. It overlooks a large lake and a thick forest beyond. In this part of the lake there are very few residents, so there are almost no other lights except for the occasional flood lights aboard the motorboats that pass by once in a while.

Hoping to sneak in a few more hours of sleep, I step out of my studio and go back to my bedroom. Out of habit, I check my Rolex watch as I sit down on my bed. It was four-thirty when I woke up and now it is almost six. I love paint, but sometimes it can rob me of much-needed sleep. I groan and collapse onto my pillow.

Just before I drift back to sleep again, I am startled by another sound. My cellphone. I know who it is just by the Bach-inspired ringtone, though I can’t say I know which one of his pieces it is. I gave up trying to keep up with the different pieces from all those classical artists a long time ago. Knowing that the phone would just start ringing again ten seconds after I ignore it, I reach over and swipe it from my nightstand. I answer.

“Mattina, sole,” says that cheery, beautiful voice I know all too well.

“Morning to you, too, Ales,” I say, a little grumpily. “This couldn’t have waited until at least eight?”

“Kieran, la scuola inizia in dieci giorni,” she said matter-of-factly.

“I know that school starts in ten days, my Italian friend!” I snap.

“Ti ho mai detto quanto attraente la tua voce suona attraverso il telefono cellulare?” asks Ales teasingly.

I wipe my hand over my face. I hate it when she tells me that my voice, or that any part of me for that matter, is attractive. “Fottiti,” I mutter.

“Screw you, too, Kieran,” ripostes Ales. “Now, get your culo out of bed or I am going to break down your door and drag you out breakfast to myself.”

“Che cosa?” I jump out of bed and open my drapes. There, standing behind the sliding glass doors, is my redheaded best friend Ales. She grins playfully, showing off her dimples while waving her fingers.

I grumble and unlock the door. “Please take off your shoes before you step off the rug.”

“You’re a little cranky this morning,” says Ales, her icy green eyes lighting up with mock-disapproval.

I groan as I sink onto my bed. “You would be too if you got up at four-thirty in the morning and couldn’t get back to sleep,” I complain as I bury my face in my lap. I didn’t have to look to tell that she had taken a seat next to me. She places a comforting arm around my shoulders.

“Mi dispiace, amico,” she says rocking my shoulders affectionately. “Hai dipingere qualcosa?”

“I did paint actually,” I reply.

Ales jumps up from my bed and prances out of my room over to my studio. About two minutes later, she lets out a squeal. Thankfully, my mother is a heavy sleeper. “Mio Dio, Kieran, your painting is beautiful!”

“You say that about all of my paintings, sorella,” I say wryly.

“Is it really a crime to enjoy all of your paintings, Kiery?”

“No.”

“Then shut up and just say ‘thank you.’”

“Grazie, Ales,” I say lifting my head from my lap and stretching.

“You’re welcome. Now I am going to go downstairs and watch Netflix, while you shower and change into something that doesn’t resemble nightwear.”

I watch as she parades out of my room while humming an Eluveitie song. I roll my eyes and go over to my closet to pick out something to wear. I end up pulling out a white V-neck T-shirt with black skull and crossbones on the back—or at least the skull and paintbrushes where there should have been bones—and a somewhat discolored pair of black jeans. I then grab my basket of toiletries and a towel from the top of my dresser and I head to the bathroom.

My mind is elsewhere as I clean my body. How am I going to spend my last week of summer? Am I going to go swimming? Perhaps get approached by someone, such as a young couple, who would like a portrait commemorating their engagement? I am probably trying too hard to map out my week.

After I get out of the shower, I rub Vaseline into my arms, face, and feet, being the places where my skin dries easily. Before leaving the bathroom, I inspect my reflection. I end up combing my short brown hair and washing my face with acne soap to fight back the few pimples that sometimes pop up along the edges of my hairline.

I go downstairs to find Ales curled up on the black leather sectional couch watching One Tree Hill and cuddling with my black and orange cat, Beatrice. As I approach, she perks her head up and lets out a squeaky meow.

“Ho già il suo nutrito,” says Ales, not taking her eyes off the television screen.

“Good to know,” I reply. “Looks like you won’t need any more food, Bea.” Those silly green eyes of hers always put a smile on my face. “So where do you want to go for breakfast, Ales?”

“Hmm, I was thinking about going to my mother’s diner.”

“Oh, your mother ought to sue us for going to her diner so many times.”

“Perseguire noi? Mia madre avrebbe preferito divorziare mio padre per non essere un avvocato che per perseguire noi per essere clienti abituali!”

“And your father is a very good lawyer,” I comment. “I would be thoroughly surprised if your parents divorced.”

Ales shrug. “Mamma might divorce Papà if he quits his job as a lawyer. Especially when he is doing so well.” She smirks. “Papà ci potrebbe gettare in carcere , se smettiamo di andare a cena di mia madre.”

My eyes widen. “I sure hope he doesn’t throw us in prison.” I grab my jacket and keys. “Now let’s get out of here; I’m hungry.”

“Anch’io,” she turns off the television and looks down pitifully at my cat. “Scusate, Beatrice, but I have to get up now.” The stubborn feline does not budge, but keeps purring. Ales sighs and gets up, prompting Beatrice to jump from her lap with an angry meow. “I’ll bring you a new bouncy ball.”

I chuckle as I walk over and pull my best friend into a hug from behind. “Don’t worry, miele, I’m sure she still loves you.”

Ales grasps my wrists affectionately. “I’m sure she laughs at you for being five inches below average height in terms of men.”

I narrow my eyes, annoyed. “Well, there’s no law that outlaws a guy being one hundred and sixty-five centimeters tall.”

“It’s good thing that I am the only other person in the room,” says Ales, removing herself from my arms. “Otherwise I would be reminding you to say ‘five-foot-five’.”

“I don’t mind using the metric system when I am around you,” I state with a shrug. I break into a toothy grin. “At least I can say that I am taller than your mother.”

Ales rolls her eyes as she makes her way to the door. “Let’s go get breakfast, you idiota.”

I laugh as I follow her.