Orfyn

 

 

I want to punch my fist through every white wall I pass. But if I break my right hand, I can’t paint. If I’m not a painter, I’m nothing.

My skin stings, and I’m grinding my teeth into gravel. What’s happening in Marty’s mind? Does he understand his Mentor is battling him for control? Was it Angus’s intention all along, or did he only discover after merging that he couldn’t handle living without a body?

Ever since I got here, Marty has been slaving away, working a hell of a lot longer than I’ve been. What was the big rush? He and Angus have a lifetime to write their novels together.

It never seemed like Marty had any fun writing. When I’ve got a brush in my hand, I lose hours, and there’s nothing I’d rather be doing. Marty must be a great writer, or he wouldn’t be a Nobel, but did it give him any joy? If not, why was he doing it?

I’ve never read anything he’s written. As far as I know, none of us have. Did the others ever ask to read his stuff? Because I never did. Why didn’t I? It might’ve helped him to hear some positive feedback.

I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance, but I have a way to get a glimpse into how his mind works. I go to my desk, where I’d stashed the two crinkled pieces of paper I never got the chance to return. A surge of excitement hits me as I begin to read Marty’s work. It’s good. Really good.

 

At the time when we either become a faint imitation of our dreams or a concrete image of our nightmares, I was rescued. It was not a religious epiphany. It was not a pragmatic realization. It was not a ridiculous philosophical declaration. It was a girl. And while the world crumbles and malice rules the universe, I am undismayed, because I love the girl with hair the color of sunshine.

 

Corruption descended on the prairie like a cloud of locusts, and for the first time I learned what my family really believed in. Not all that much. The church was a club of suckers and sadists, and only the fake sinners paid. To the others—the ones who would cut your throat to take your grandmother’s wedding ring and catch up with the Revival a few days later—it was a breadbox. An unholy deception of the worst kind, and I loved everything about it. Because she was there.

 

The wandering cow came home that night, and I just knew we’d make it. We sat around the fire—more smoke than heat, due to the wet forest—and little Sally hooted, and damned if she didn’t call down an owl, and Rance took it with the bow, and we cooked it and were about as happy as we could be, ’cause we knew there’d be mice around. And then the blond girl gave me this look, and it all went away: the fire and the forest, the dreams and the darkness, and the unexplainable need to stay alive.

 

You could feel the heat. The fire was closing in. It had crossed the river to the south and made it all around Lake Duroy. It was only a matter of time before the Town vanished into ash, and all its sins with it. The smart folks were gone with the last train, along with any semblance of order. There was no way out, and the only thing standing between her and a life she deserved was him. The only thing.

 

Every afternoon I walk to the park, and if she’s there, I watch her. Her blond hair catching in the breeze; her reddened cheeks tightened in laughter; just the glow of her. I know when she has a hard day. I know because it’s hard for me. It’s hard for everyone else, too. I make sure of that. She is the sun I revolve around. And I hope she never finds out.

 

I’d tapped out all the relatives, friends, and church-goers; pressed all the people that owed me dough; hit the plasma clinic; and sold Granddad’s stock in the Green Bay Packers. For the first time in my life, I knew who I was and what I cared about. I knew what I had to do. My life would matter, and I would never leave her alone again. I would follow love.

 

How many other first paragraphs has Marty thrown away? Dozens? Hundreds? He was writing a love story. Is there a special girl waiting for the day when he’s allowed to see her again? Will someone tell her Marty may never come home?

We’ve got to get him back so he has the chance to finish his novel. And I want to help him understand that the thrill of being an artist comes from reaching beyond what we think we’re capable of, not achieving perfection. I also want to learn if there really is a girl he loves.

My eyes catch on Lake’s canvas, leaning against the wall. Until today, she’s never let me into her place, so I’ve never hung it for her. The bottom third is still blank, since Alex broke up the party before she could finish it. He’s got to be scared to death that they can’t figure out how to help him. I vow to start hanging out with him more. Hear him play the guitar. Make him laugh.

I take the canvas over to the table and grab my oils, but not my brushes. I’ll finish it like Lake started it: with my hands. It’ll be a pain to get the paint off, but I want to respect her style. Unlike the criminal who painted over the beached whale, I’m not changing a thing about her work. As our paintings brush up against each other’s, I want the emotions to merge into something bigger—something that will blow her mind.