bookends theme, vincent & willem jb
Jun 9, 2022 18:53:03 GMT -5
Post by fox on Jun 9, 2022 18:53:03 GMT -5
W I L L E M
The door closes slowly behind him, and the noise from outside becomes smaller and smaller, until he looks back and there's just an inch of it left.
A beam of sound and sunlight dances on the wall,
and then nothing.
There are big sweeping paintings where the sun was, drawings of ships and landscapes that he thinks are supposed to be of Four. But the water never looks like that. The lines are very sharp and fine and crowded, and the hulls are too bright against the blue seas.
He thinks of their shore, with salt softened ships, bobbing on the water at dawn. He thinks of torrential downpours, broad strokes and spilling over the canvas.
He made watercolours of every season, and there's a muscle memory of the way he'd painted the waters of last August when he looks down to his hands.
Yesterday his palms were very hot underneath a pair of garden gloves and the dandelion fuzz was soft against his skin and his fingers followed the valleys and hills of a needle of thread on an old shirt. They were always holding and pressing and grasping and pulling, always entwined in some thought.
And now they're just there, balled into fists, resting on his lap.
Vincent is the second to visit.
First was Kaatje, who had burst through the door and came to him like a flame, hot and biting. She screamed at him for a while, and he had just sat there, looking somewhere past her at a stroke of paint in a golden frame on the wall opposite. And then she stopped, rushed towards him, pulled him into a hug, and he patted her a bit on the back as she continued to curse him out.
Vincent is more quiet. The door closes behind him with a soft click.
"Did I do okay?" He asks, and it comes out very soft. Because it was never supposed to be him, but now he was what they got, out on the podium, the drone cameras buzzing around him like glass bees. "How – how's mom?"
A beam of sound and sunlight dances on the wall,
and then nothing.
There are big sweeping paintings where the sun was, drawings of ships and landscapes that he thinks are supposed to be of Four. But the water never looks like that. The lines are very sharp and fine and crowded, and the hulls are too bright against the blue seas.
He thinks of their shore, with salt softened ships, bobbing on the water at dawn. He thinks of torrential downpours, broad strokes and spilling over the canvas.
He made watercolours of every season, and there's a muscle memory of the way he'd painted the waters of last August when he looks down to his hands.
Yesterday his palms were very hot underneath a pair of garden gloves and the dandelion fuzz was soft against his skin and his fingers followed the valleys and hills of a needle of thread on an old shirt. They were always holding and pressing and grasping and pulling, always entwined in some thought.
And now they're just there, balled into fists, resting on his lap.
Vincent is the second to visit.
First was Kaatje, who had burst through the door and came to him like a flame, hot and biting. She screamed at him for a while, and he had just sat there, looking somewhere past her at a stroke of paint in a golden frame on the wall opposite. And then she stopped, rushed towards him, pulled him into a hug, and he patted her a bit on the back as she continued to curse him out.
Vincent is more quiet. The door closes behind him with a soft click.
"Did I do okay?" He asks, and it comes out very soft. Because it was never supposed to be him, but now he was what they got, out on the podium, the drone cameras buzzing around him like glass bees. "How – how's mom?"
