Just an old story I had written when I was fourteen when my parent's told me I couldn't become a freelance artist.... Not the exact way the story went, but hey. It's the gist of it. The actual one I think was longer and much sappier. Enjoy~
Carmella sat in the kitchenette of her flat, roommates still asleep. She was about to go off to work. She thought back to her teen years as she drank her coffee. All the steps she took and her failures and successes. Her light brown hair and hazel eyes became laced with sadness.
I sat in the living room, the light reflecting grimly off the “maple yellow” walls. I remember the way we were sitting, father in front of me and mother beside me. My father was talking about something, something I did not like. “Being an artist is very rare, it’s a subjective job, and you won’t go very far”. I know I thought, I know. Though I knew I did not speak. Only earlier this evening my father scolded my brother for speaking out. I learned to call it the “Shut up and Listen rant” his rants to me were usually called “NBA stars and Artists” and “Get Realistic Dreams, Your Drawings Don’t Measure Up To The Other Artists” long names I know, but nonetheless. I resented my father from then, I took the pictures of the walls of my room as my heart grew pained every glance I took at them. I knew myself I do not measure up to the rest of the artists in the world. I decided I would still try. Even after I chose to resent him his putdowns still wounded my already shattered ego. I still built my portfolio and decided in two years time I would try for art schools like Emily Carr and OCAD. I had a very high failure rate.
Carmella frowned at the memory, she looked at the family photo on the counter, her brother and sister smiling back to her warmly, she remembered a time when she hated her brother and envied her sister. Her sister the genius and brother the socially inept gifted child, even now Carmella envied them a bit, just a bit.
I remember when I went into my first portfolio interview, I had confidence I showed my processes and final pieces. Even through all of that, I still didn’t get in. I thought back to what my father said and my own shortcomings. I noticed I will never be good enough for myself. The moment I went home I slashed my paintings apart and burned them. I couldn’t bear to look at the paint covered canvases any longer. What had used to be a symbol of my pride and love turned into the sole symbol of my incompetence.
I found myself envying my sister and with her life’s acceptance to what she willed it to be. I wished slightly the same of my life. I left the interview with disappointment and tears in my eyes, though I had applied for other places like York University and University of Toronto for Food and Nutrition or Phycology programs. Though it wasn’t my dream job I would have to settle. At least I could crawl out of life with whatever dignity I had.
Carmella finished her coffee and put the mug in the sink, Cartolina would wash it when she woke. Carmella dug around the living room for her coat. It was just beginning to get chilly. She almost dreaded the walk to the clinic. She didn’t like having to deal with people whining about their bodies, she thought they were too self absorbed. “Damn organ sacks, they don’t see that they’re just an insignificant bit of carbon.” She thought bitterly.
I remember how small I felt in the world, I was really out of place. It was like I was being crushed by the other student’s prominent auras and busy bodies. It was impossible to me to study like they did. But here I am doing trying to make my way to being a half decent nutritionist or something of the sort. Maybe a physician, I wasn’t so sure. I wandered lost in the vast campus, in the vast sea of determined busy bodies and the vast world.
Carmella walked down the metropolitan sidewalk. The morning was still young thus only the joggers and dog walkers were out. She let out another long exasperated sigh in defeat as she neared closer to her destination. Carmella only smiled briefly when a round, pudgy dog ran up the sniff at her leg.
I still remember the joy I had when I graduated with my degree in nutrition. My sister congratulated me with a smile and a pat on the back, my brother a smirk with a condescending comment which must have translated to “Good job little sister!” My parents did not come to my ceremony. It was just as well. When the luster of achievement was gone I had set off to work. My first job was an assistant at a local walk in clinic. The doctors there were a bit shady, but what could I do? I simply put up with my co-worker’s flippant attitudes for another four years before I could open my own business. That would be bliss.
As she rounded the next corner she couldn’t help but notice the street performers setting up to play the city a wake up song for a few bucks. Saxophone players quietly tuning their instruments in a jazzy blue tone, making Carmella think she forgot something. Suddenly she turned around and headed backwards. Back to her home, back to where she belonged.
After I had met with Cartolina she hooked me up with a job at a pretty well-known clinic that some of her police friends go to. I was happier there. The people were a bit friendlier, but still snobby… I suppose it’s the cost of being in the medical field. My surge of content and warmth sparked something in me that I hadn’t felt in years. I went to the closest dollar store and bought a cheap oil paint set, whipped out an old canvas and painted.
Carmella wrote a quick note to Cartolina asking her to call into the clinic for her, that she would be missing a day. Carmella dashed to her room and reached under her bed, pulling out a flat box. It was a meter by sixty centimeters in size and pulled out a cloth covered item. She blew off the dust gently and caressed the cloth before peeling it off. She smiled at the image before her, its subtle colours and light. She went to her desk and pulled out a small stationary set and began writing.
I’m sorry that I’ve disappointed you. And most importantly I’m sorry I disappointed myself. I want you to know, that though when I was young I hated you, for what you did and what you made me feel. I forgive you. I always will, even if you aren’t asking for it. Te amo, anche quando sembra che io ti odio.Te amo per sempre.
-Il tuo l’uccello
Carmella taped the small white envelope on its surface and put it back into the box. After a short trip to the post office, she let out a sigh of relief.
“I can’t believe I forgot to send that stupid old painting to my parents.” She smiled fondly as she looked at the receipt in her hand before she crumpled to the ground out of breath. Her heart seized before her knees even hit the ground Carmella had never known she could die of a broken heart. However she was glad that her parents would hear her final words. In that little envelope taped on to her painting of happiness. Her painting, that would immortalize her as a lonely caged bird that had finally stretched her wings to fly. The eagle flying into the arms of an angel.
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