<Way.> No.1

No.1 of <Way.>, A Collection of Short Stories.

Photo by Denise Johnson on Unsplash

The complexity of "The Starving Artist" was known to Anne ever since she understood speech. Father painted, but sold none; Mother waited, but patience, no matter how strong, would always wear thin. The countless screaming contests between Mother and Father felt like scars that would never fade. Father would always told her things would get better, and she always believed him. She wanted to believe him.

One night, when Father wasn't home, Mother brought out an old suitcase and opened the closet door.

"Where are we going?" "Are we coming back?" "What about home and school?"

"What about Father?"

It had been years since. Anne took her SATs. At University Fairs, her eyes always wandered to Design Schools and Liberal Arts Colleges, but Mother would have none of it.

"Don't you want to support your family?" "Do you want to work in an art museum?" "Do you want to become like Father?"

Anne would always shake her head.

"Then you will become Someone Else. Someone Else earn money. Money lets you live."

So Anne became Someone Else. Happiness shone from Mother's face, weathered with age and overtime, but Anne, oddly, felt none herself. She could eat, travel, have a roof over her head, but Something was missing.

What was that Something?

Her friends invited her for an afternoon of fun. Anne tried her hardest to be there with them until they were all so exhausted it didn't really make a difference anymore.

"It's free opening day." She pointed at a marble building.

Her friends were too tired. Anne separated from them and left to explore on her own.

Statues, paintings, murals, pictures... It felt like a long-forgotten dream. Then her eyes wandered to a portrait of an old man. Retreating hairline, crow's feet, but he might as well had been the same. She read the tag, "To My Loved Ones", and tears burned her eyes.

"Where is he now?" "I'm not sure, ma'am." "Where did the painting come from?" "I don't know that either, ma'am." "How much is it worth?" "A lot, that I know." "And how much did he get?" "A lot too, I suppose."

She called Mother that night, her voice trembled with anticipation.

"...Who?" "Father!"

It took a long time, way too long for Anne, to find her Something back. Anne was very happy she did.