Masterpiece {h.s}

12. Hurricane & Sanity

Kind of a filler chapter, sorry. 

END OF AUGUST

A hurricane. That’s the word I would use to describe my life a month ago. A raging hurricane, destroying everything in it’s way. Strong winds and continuous rain, that made it seem like it would never end. I was standing in the eye of the storm and I watched as my whole world was being destroyed. My family, my so called friends and of course, myself. Everything was being savagely demolished by it.

And today, I was picking up the broken pieces, one by one. Or at least I was trying to.

It had been three weeks since my mom entered rehab and I moved to New York with Meghan. Three week since that dreadful night that left a sour taste in my mouth. I didn’t want to focus on that, but I couldn’t help it. The night left me bitter. I tried so hard to ignore it, but it kept creeping up on me.

Move on. That's what I kept telling myself.

But the fact is that it's hard to move on when memories keep coming back. I know I have to stop thinking about the past, I have to stop blaming my mom, or myself, for everything that happened. Things happened and there was nothing I could do about it.

I won't lie, I was having a hard time with moving on, but at least I was trying.

Once my mother entered rehab, I packed everything and moved to New York with Meghan. I knew I needed to get out of that house, it held so many memories that I couldn't face alone. New York was a new start for me, it was what I needed.

My mother called me every week, telling me how she was doing, how she progressed, but also regressed at times. I was happy for her, I really was. She was slowly realizing how low she was and admitting her faults.
Every time she called me she had an apology for me. And every time I told her that it was ok. Although it wasn’t I knew that she needed my forgiveness, that it helped her.

I, on the other hand, was still adapting to the city life. The whole motivation of a new start was starting to fade everyday, because it wasn’t as I expected.

Last time that I was in New York, there was a time when I felt alive and relieved. But now, that wasn’t happening. I was constantly thinking, trying to figure out a way to feel that way again. What was different now, why wasn’t I feeling better?
Instead, I was feeling alone, just like my first day here, except now, it had been three weeks. The city felt cold to me, everyone seemed too caught up in their own world, ignoring everyone.

I kept asking myself why I felt this way, what made me so happy at the time. The same answer kept coming back, but every time, I pushed it away.

Harry.

That damn boy that had talked to me, that had cared about me. He had turned my life upside down. It was when I was with him, or talking to him that I felt happiest. Because in one hand he cared and on the other hand, he was funny. Sort of. He distracted me from my everyday thoughts and apparently that’s what I needed.

Everyday, for the past three weeks, I went to some art exposition, and everyday, Harry would make an appearance in my thoughts. I would sit on a bench or look at a painting and I would hear Harry’s voice telling me he loves or hates the painting, the way he did when we first met.

Remembering this was annoying, because I would imagine it and for a second I would believe that he was there and my mood would lift a little. But then, I would turn my head and see that he isn’t actually there and my mood would be back the way it was.

I hated the fact that a guy that I knew only for a couple of days had made such an impact on me.

Today, I went to an exposition at the MoMA. After spending the last few weeks at the MET, I decided to change a little and go see expositions that were much closer to my style of art. Of course the MoMA had a variety of exposition and not all of them attracted me, but there were some that I was really excited about.

I walked aimlessly through the different rooms. Looking at different paintings, imagining what state of mind the artist was when he painted them. Although some described an abundant use of color as a happy state of mind, I knew better. Sometimes a burst of color was simply an overflow of emotions, not necessarily happy emotions.

Some people say that art is to make the viewer feel. I believe that art is to show what you really feel. That’s why I didn’t paint or draw a month ago, because I was feeling nothing. But now things were different. The pain, the sadness, the loneliness, it was back. All of it was hitting me like a ton of bricks and I was trying to avoid feeling it.

I sat in front of a piece by Louise Bourgeois. It said “Art is a guarantee of sanity”, written in pencil on a pink colored paper. It was simple, most people read the line and continued to walk. But it spoke to me, because I felt insane.

I took out my drawing pad and a pencil. I opened a blank page and wrote a single word.

Sanity.

I stared at it for a couple of seconds and before I could think about it I was drawing. It started with a neck, the shoulders, the arms. Then I drew the outline of the face and the hair, up in a ponytail. I left the face blank, my pen hesitating if I should draw a face to this girl I just drew. I sighed and I scribbled the face.

I looked at my finished drawing, I had drawn the complete opposite of what I wanted. This wasn’t sanity, it was insanity.

Again, my art had betrayed my true feelings. No matter how much I wanted to be okay, or how I wanted to feel sane, I wasn’t. I had so many thoughts on my mind, battling to be my priority and I felt insane. School was stressing me out, my mother was on my mind and Daisy never failed to be reminded. I didn’t know where to put my mind.

I walked to another room and stood in front of a painting by Josh Smith, “untitled”. For some reason, it stood out to me. The traits, the colors… I don’t really know, something about it pulled me in.

I looked at it for a while and as usual, I wondered if Harry would like it and I got caught up in my own imagination. He probably would, he seemed into modern abstract art. I turned my head, still imagining, but this time something was different. He was there, standing ten feet away from me, looking at the painting next to me. He was dressed all in black, holding a black file. His hair was shorter than I remembered, and I smiled remembering. He did needed a haircut at the time. I was disappointed by the fact that he wasn’t smiling, it meant that I couldn’t see his dimples. Instead he was frowning with his mouth in a thin line.

I blinked a couple of times, expecting him to disappear, but he didn’t. It wasn’t my imagination, he really was there.

Should I go and talk to him? Would he want to talk to me?

As realization sunk in, I quickly turned my back to him. Of course he wouldn’t. Last time we talked, I clearly told him I wanted nothing to do with him anymore. Since then, he made no effort to contact me again. I had pushed him away and he wasn’t coming back.

I sighed and looked back to see if he had seen me. As I turned, our eyes locked. His eyes widen in surprise and mine in panic. No matter how much I wished I would see him again, now that it was happening, I wasn’t ready for it.

His hand lifted towards me and he opened his mouth to say something to me, but before he could say anything, I turned back around and exited the room.

“Annabelle!” I heard him call.

I started to walk a little bit faster, hoping he wouldn’t catch up.

“Annabelle, wait!”

I kept walking and took a quick glance back. He had stopped chasing me, but he looked at me as I exited. The hurt and confusion his eyes displayed would forever be engraved in my mind.

 

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Hi guys! Hope you had a lovely day. 
Sorry this chapter is a little bit of a filler, but it was sort of necessary. But don't worry... from now on, the story will be focusing back on Harry and Annabelle, so it should be more interesting.
The artworks I mentioned will be posted on my tumblr if you want to see what she is talking about. (www.k-xrry.tumblr.com)

Please vote and comment, it means a lot to me <3

Love you all,
Karry xx.