Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 130275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
Savannah was beside me, but none of us could see one another’s canvases. I stared at that white piece of canvas and wondered what the hell she’d ask us to draw.
“For today’s session, I would like you to remember the person or persons you have lost,” Miriam said, and my world absolutely stopped. Invisible hands took hold of my lungs and heart and began to squeeze. I heard my heart beat slow in my ears as white noise filled in the rest of the barren space.
“You have an array of paint colors in front of you. I want you to think of who you have lost and simply paint. It can be a portrait or simply a conceptual representation of who they were to you, who they were in life. Perhaps how you feel since they have been gone.
“I want you to really pour your heart into the memories you have with this person and purge it on the canvas.” Miriam walked slowly around us all, circling the silent room. The tension between all of us rose so high you could slice it with a knife.
“I want you to really delve down deep.” Her voice changed sympathetically. “This can be emotionally draining. But we must face these emotions head-on. We must think of the person we have lost and not run from their memory or the pain their passing can inspire.” Miriam stood in the center of the circle. She placed her hand on her chest. “Feel this painting. Feel your loved ones. Let your soul lead you on this journey and allow all the pent-up sorrow and happiness and unfairness you feel leave your body.” Miriam smiled at each of us. “When you’re ready, please begin.”
I stared at the canvas for so long, I completely lost track of time. I didn’t know what to paint. Nothing was coming forward. In my peripheral, I saw people beginning to put their brushes to their pieces. I didn’t look at what colors they were using or what they might be painting. The canvas before me seemed like an impossible mountain to climb.
A familiar heat seared through me. And today, I let it. I needed to feel it right now. I was so angry at Cillian. He had taken our dreams and smashed them into pieces, so many that they could never be put back together again. He had destroyed our family. He had destroyed his friends, his team; he had destroyed so much in his path that he was like the deadliest of tornadoes.
And he hadn’t told anyone. He’d hid his pain with easy smiles and loud laughs. He’d played every game of hockey like he was in the Stanley Cup final. Talked animatedly, the life of the party at family gatherings, at our family dinners. And me, I was the idiot who hadn’t seen through the cracks—his fractures. I hadn’t seen the sadness in his eyes. Hadn’t noticed the tiredness in his voice, hadn’t noticed him giving up, day by day, pretending to the world that he was fine.
But worst of all, he hadn’t told anyone why. They’d been no obvious reason for why he’d done it. No falling out with friends, no girlfriend who had left him broken-hearted. He hadn’t been in trouble. He was in the first line at Harvard, on his way to the Frozen Four, NHL shining brightly in his future. He had a mother and father and brother who adored him.
But he’d fucking left anyway.
It was only when the paintbrush snapped in my hand and the canvas blurred before me that I realized I’d been painting. That I’d thrown color onto the white canvas and poured all of what I was thinking into some kind of art piece.
I blinked my eyes and cleared the tears that had formed. And I just stared … I stared at what lay before me.
Blackness. Black swirls laced with red. Red for blood and anger. Black for the loss and the state I’d been left in. Ice trickled down my spine, picking up speed until a thought came to mind—was this painting how Cillian had been feeling that night to do what he did? Nothing inside of his heart to live for?
Death his only option.
Death, to stop the pain.
Death, to escape whatever hell life had become for him. He’d suffered in silence and died that way too.
A hand landed on my shoulder. The touch was gentle and supportive. “Beautiful,” Miriam said, and her voice was shaking. I didn’t look up, but I thought I heard tears in her tone. “It’s so truly beautiful, Cael.” I stared at the painting and saw no beauty in it. It was like a void, sucking everything bright and light into its mouth. The longer I stared at it, at the flashes of red, the swirling brushstrokes, and pitch-black opaque of the center, a deep coldness settled over the rest of me.