Friend
“You’re a fucking wizard, Victor! ” Roxy’s pupils are glittering under the snacks I cook by utilizing what is left. I carefully place the burrata, grilled bread, and polenta cake onto the specific spot before returning to being surrounded by Roxy and her friends. “That’s delicious; you should be a cook!” An acquaintance exclaims while smacking me blissfully. “I’m working in a restaurant currently. I suppose,” I reply. Yet the only matter that I could discern was that scraps of the bread were scattered on the ground messily. “My mother said men who cook are most likely psycho.” A girl whose appearance is painted in redness spills her bottle of alcohol onto me when complaining. “I believe that there must be a story behind it.” As the time arrow marches forward, the riot somehow withers, and there’s simply silence and the peaceful rhythm of their breaths. I see Roxy silently collecting rubbish on the ground. Hence, I join this as well.
“That’s very sweet.” Somehow, the energy of her voice has debilitated slightly. “Not a friend of craziness, are you?” She tiredly sits on a couch when massive bags of rubbish are placed in the corner of the room. “This experience is truly curious,” I reply while sitting opposite Roxy. She smiles, softly. Pupils hover over the illumination of the moon. “I have taken a glimpse of the death certificate. I’m sorry for your loss. Still, I was very surprised that not even a little bit of sentiment appeared in you.” Her voice and eyes are sincere. “I understand the sorrow of being deprived of someone you love profoundly. I lost Olivia. My friend, while you lost your sister.” “You were a friend of Olivia?” I ask, surprisingly, while the burning sentiment is bubbling up inside rapidly. “That explains a lot of matters. The rationale behind talking to me and predominantly everything.” “Olivia was one of the best artists in the entire world. I realize that I’ll never accomplish the pinnacle of art—the moment when I get to see her paintings.” She talks continuously, as if demanding my silence not to taint the blissful memory. “So?” I ask. She smacks her lips a little before replying, “She was addicted to antidepressants. She’s like you, sensitive yet competent. I genuinely yearn to tell you that there must be something worth living for. So please, do not end in that finale.” I sigh deeply. “Roxy, you’re truly wonderful. I mean it.”
“That’s also the only cause why you’ll never understand, even if this happened once more. She’ll still kill herself.” I exit the mansion quietly, where Roxy’s pupils dilate out of surprise, and the heartbroken expression of her lingers painfully.
The paintings engulfed in cardboard are transported inside a massive truck parked beside Olivia’s apartment. Where multiple workers are carrying these as if they were one of the most precious treasures. “I couldn’t even properly appreciate your assistance on this, Mr. Victor Blane. That’ll be the end. Every painting of Miss Olivia Blane will be safely and successfully transported. Could I invite you to visit the memorial exhibition, should it be finished in the future?” Ellie bows respectfully while uttering the sentence. Somehow, this experience is quite bizarre to me. Weirdly, the truth of Olivia’s death is almost a factoid that happened in a secluded place in place of a painful matter. I could almost take a grip of the grief, yet I couldn’t. I sit silently on the plain bed of Olivia while resting. It’s a cozy room, even though there’s only painting equipment everywhere. You could understand the seriousness and tidiness of the resident. Suddenly, a hidden object in the fissure of the bedroom raids into my sight. Dust and ashes swallow it until there’s only a remnant to be left.
Somehow, the ferrule of the brush has become so hefty, and the pigments of those vibrant colors look dull and repetitive to me whenever I try to paint. I sigh powerlessly, understanding that it is not possible to accomplish whatever there is must be finished. The sun sets and rises while the painting remains unaffected. The voices become so noisy. Its criticism lingers inside, hardly disappearing. “You’re a counterfeit, Victor.” She mutters. The headache and the sound are echoing inside continuously, melting every ounce of composure into shattering pieces.
“Good morning. I’m Charlotte Sinclair. I will be your attending psychiatrist for the coming sessions.” The place is so tranquil and summery that I understand the moment when I enter this room that the progress Charlotte aspires to see will hardly be visible. “Victor, could you describe how’s your life recently? Is there a matter you would like to mention or talk about?” I remain in powerless silence. “I run out of burrata recently,” I reply shortly. “How’s your sentiment the moment you found out?” She asks unhurriedly. “Tired. Cause that’s midnight.” She nods, “Looking for snacks?” I nod, too. “Yeah.” The silence lingers while the memory rewinds inadvertently inside. “A friend of midnight snack? I do possess that kind of pattern myself.”
The ray of sunshine comes, splitting the paintings and myself into the conflicting sections of shadow and brilliance. Resting in the darkness, I turn to look out that pedestrians walking on the road, commuting for work and whatever’s about to come. Yet, my weighty eyelids still reside in yesterday. The dizziness compels me to sleep while it stirs relentlessly. “Yeah, Grace speaking here. A reminder that it’s about to be your shift, yet I couldn’t sense your presence currently. Yeah…” The telephone is left on the easel. “Yeah…I’ll be there. It’s alright. I’ll cover it.” I knock vehemently on the mirror inside the bathroom. Pieces of it shatter onto the ground when the crimson blood slowly drips onto the ground. “It’s alright. Let’s get to work.”