The Eye

An artist who loves to draw and her boyfriend who is jealous of her passion for her work.

 

There was a quote that she liked from a book she once read. She couldn’t remember the title of the book; she had read it so long ago. Sometime in high school. The quote wasn’t clear in her mind either. Something about living. Or was it dying?

“Hey, I need this itinerary bound and sent out. Can you do it?” asked her coworker, slathered in thick makeup.

“Yeah. I’ll do it as soon as I’m done with this stack of general information kits,” replied Callie.

Her coworker eyed the huge pile. Callie could see what she was thinking. If she did it herself it would get done quickly. If she added it to Callie’s pile, it would be awhile before it got done. She placed it on the stack.

Callie went back to work. The machine cut holes and she bound them. Cut then bound. It was tedious and time consuming, but it required no thinking. Her mind could wander.

She wasn’t at work inside her mind. Her hands weren’t binding booklets. She was at home, in her room with her hands covered in color. She was running her oil pastels across a blank canvas. Smooth, they ran. Smooth across the canvas like an ice skater across a frozen pond.

The idea had come to her during lunch at the park. A little boy had been staring at a blue jay sitting at eye level with him. They stared at each other until the boy stepped forward and the blue jay flew away. The spell was broken. She wanted to cast it again. Cast it so it would never break. Her fingers itched.

Time dragged on at work. Cut then bound. Cut then bound. Her arms moved on their own in their routine. It was dance they had struggled to learn in her first few months of work. After a year, they knew the dance so well she would find them moving in the pattern while she slept or was lost in thought.

She was so preoccupied with the drawing in her head that she worked an hour more than usual. She was snapped out of it when her boss told he was glad she was being so enthusiastic.

“Enthusiasm is a good thing. You might be rewarded.”

He winked at her. It made her skin crawl.

She packed up her things and turned her phone on. Alex had left her five messages.

“I’m outside. Where are you?”

“Cal, where are you? I’m outside.”

“Jeez, I’m going to leave. It’s been twenty minutes.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going.”

Callie sighed and laughed. She had done this before. He always threatened to leave. She would walk out, find him in the parking lot, explain everything and he would laugh.

But she walked out and he wasn’t there. It wasn’t the first time he had left her in the past month.  Her heart pained her a little but she dismissed it. She found the city bus and continued painting in her mind. When she got home he wasn’t there. Callie threw her stuff on the table and found her smock.

Inside her room the dying light lingered on the papers pinned to the walls and spilled onto her easel and the bare white canvas it held. She turned on the light and sat down before itand pulled her small table holding her oil pastels closer to her. She began.

Callie’s room was her studio. She didn’t sleep there. It was tiny and cramped even with the few pieces of furniture it had. She loved it though. It was her place. It was where she felt at home.

She shared her bedroom with Alex. That was her other home. The one she fled to when her hands were too tired to continue or when she had finished a piece and wished to celebrate. It was different kind of love, being in Alex’s arms than the love she felt in her room.

Callie heard the door open then close. Alex was home. She thought of going to see him but her hand was fighting to get the bird’s eye just right. He would come.

The door to their bedroom opened and closed and she could hear him banging about. Part of her was curios as to what he had been doing before he came home and had she not been drawing, she would have gone to ask. She struggled with the bird’s eye.

Eventually Alex came in. He stood in the doorway and stared at her. She was hunched in her chair, her hair escaping her bun in wisps and falling about her face. He was angry with her for being late again and having him wait in the parking lot but her sight still softened him. He took her in, her small frame, her utter concentration on her piece, the wrinkle that appeared in her brow when something was not going right. Her hands were covered in residue from her oil pastels. Her picture took form underneath her hand.

He walked towards her and kissed the back of her neck. She giggled and her hand stopped moving. He had gained her attention.

Callie expected him to kiss her again but he stood unmoving behind her. She turned to him.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“You lie. What is it?” she asked pushing him.

He knocked her hand away.

“You’re going to get my shirt dirty.”

Callie looked at her hands.

“I’m sorry about being late,” she said as she grabbed a towel to wipe them.

“It’s fine. I’m used to it,” he lied.

“I just got caught up with the idea for this painting. You know, I got the idea at the park. At lunch today and-”

“That's good,” he said indifferently.

“What is it?!” she asked frustrated.

“I said nothing.”

“Then please leave,” she said, hurt. She threw the towel to the side and picked her oil pastel up again. The bird’s eye was not coming out right at all.

Alex turned to walk out. He was hurt by her request and his jealousy for her art raged inside of him.

“Can you do something other than your art for once?” he said softly.

Her hand stopped.
“What?”

“Every other day you are late because you have some big idea, then you lock yourself in your room and spend entire nights in here. Could you be with me for one night? Just me?” The words were out of his mouth before he thought about them.

Callie looked up at him surprised. Hadn’t he realized that she wasn’t painting as much as she used to? She barely found inspiration anymore. Why didn’t he know that when she was in her room she wasn’t working, she was staring at the canvas wishing her hands would move?

“We aren’t in college anymore,” he continued. “You can’t do this for the rest of your life.  What happens when your boss gives you harder jobs? Ones where you have to actually think? Are you going to spend the whole time thinking about painting?”

“I pay attention to my work!” she said.

“What is going to happen when we have kids? You can’t put a baby in a crib and expect it not to cry so you can paint. Or are you going to leave me and the baby alone so you can work on your art?” he said, his jealousy rising up out of his chest and flying from his mouth. He knew this was hurting her.

“I wouldn’t! You know that. That's different"”

“Do you even want to marry me?” he said voicing the question that had been plaguing him for weeks.

She froze. His question wrapped around her and squeezed her tightly. How could he ask that?

“How could you ask that?”

He was her second home.

“You don’t act like it.” He said.

He was where she loved to be.

“Why would you ask that?”

He made her happy.

“What is more important, your art or me?”

She slapped him. The black residue from her oil pastel smeared across his cheek.

They stood silent. Her hand stung as his cheek throbbed.

“If you want to be with me, stop painting. I can’t do it… I can’t stand it.” He said softly.

His words slapped her. She felt them echo in her head. She didn’t know how to respond.

Callie’s body moved as she struggled to form a coherent reply. She began to pack up her things. Her oil pastels were put into their box. Her easel folded then slid into its case.

“What are you doing?” said Alex.

It was then she remembered the quote from the book she read. The book was The Fountainhead.

“I could die for you. But I couldn't, and wouldn't, live for you,” she said softly.

He stared at her incredulously.

“What are you talking about?”

“I love being with you. I would die for you.  But I can’t live for you. I… I need to live for me. I need to do what I want,” she said realizing the truth in what she said as it came from her mouth. Her body continued packing.

She left the room and walked into theirs. She emptied drawers and packed them into bags she found in the closet. Callie packed up her life, leaving behind the portions of it that were entwined with Alex.

Behind her, Alex followed, watching her, trying to convince himself she wasn’t actually leaving. It was a bluff. She was bluffing.

As she walked to the door, her life hanging over her small shoulders, dragging behind her, and dangling from her arms. He realized she wasn’t.

“You aren’t leaving.” He said.

“Open the door, please.”

He opened the door and she walked out. As he watched her walked down the hall of the apartment building he fought the urge to scream after her.

Alex closed the door. The apartment was quiet and ghostly. He walked to her room and stood in the doorway. The light was still on and he realized she had forgotten the canvas she had been working on. He looked at it. The bird’s eye wasn’t right. Blue jays don’t cry.

Author's Note

This actually has 2 endings. This one and one where Callie ends up staying and Alex leaves. I like both but so far the majority who have read it liked this one better.

Reviews

[blob blob]

this is wonderful Ecnelis...i really love it...:-)
you set the mood perfectly with the dialogue-
which is very difficult to do i think..
and the last line makes you want to cry...
but the point of the story is well taken...
this is very poignant and magnificent for sure...
just supreme and i truly do love it!!!:-)

J;)

[Another Relic]

Well done, I like the end because an artist expresses his/her art through their own personal feelings and internal dialog. The fact that you put the tear shows you are aware of that. A few minor missing words or typos but nothing to nit pic over. nice job.

[jenniewren (J.W. Bouwma..]

this is excellent. EXCELLENT. do you paint?

"Smooth, they ran. Smooth across the canvas like an ice skater across a frozen pond"

you must because that is exactly what oil pastels feel like when they are flowing, and all of your creative juices are pumping at full bore.

there is so much to this that i love.. the lyricism surrounded by REAL dialogue, by REAL thought. it drives me crazy when people write these characters that are in 2D, flat cardboard.. yours breathe and exist.

i'm an eternal optimist, so i would love to say the ending should be a happy one.. but that wouldnt feel true to the story. maybe i will just imagine a time, further on, when they both learn where the boundaries need to be.. but for now? the true ending is just as you wrote it here.

one teensy small thing "hands were toO tired to continue"

[Cristal Bridges]

This is absolutley, positively amazing! Two thumbs way up! It's beautiful and tragic but can sometimes happen when people don't understand that people who create art have to do it when the insparation comes or all is lost. I love this so much. It reminds me of the relationship between Professor Behr and Jo March in Little Women (the movie especially). She wrote horror stories and he hated them. He told her to write from her heart and they seperated but the ending turned out so good because she got published and got him as well. Seriously great job! The last line is so beautiful. :)

[J.M]

That was really beautiful, I love the imagery of 'an ice skater across a frozen pond', and the ending was amazing. Nice piece.

[Mary Evans]

Its a great story i can really feel the mood. Also quite emotional.

And criticism, here it goes. First i think the second sentence of the first paragraph isn't necessary because it just repeats the first.
Else, you have several repetitions and work a bit on the dialogue.