‹ Prequel: Said Is Dead
The Art-Deco Project
Four
Three days had passed and I was still in the hospital. They wouldn't let me leave. My skin itched, and my fingers would twitch every few minutes. I needed my art, and my pills-I'd go for a bottle of whiskey even. But no, they wouldn't let me have anything, and I was going insane.
The doctors had contacted my parents, I don't speak to them-ever. The last time we spoke was before my high school graduation ceremony-they had no clue my car was packed for New York. The minute I had my diploma I ran like hell for my car, I didn't even say goodbye. I drove for hours from my small town in Illinois and never looked back.
My parents were coming to the hospital, they were on a plane to come and get me-that's what the doctor kept telling me. I was "drying out" apparently, I didn't have a problem, I needed a paintbrush. I could control my urges, but this hospital stay was messing up my plan. I haven't blogged in a week, and I'm behind three paintings. The nurses gave me some crayons and finger paint-I feel degraded, I wonder if when Warhol was dying in the hospital if he was given the same things.
I doubt it, he was admitted willingly. I swear, if I ever lay eyes on my neighbor I will take him down. I understand he saved my life, but he could have just made sure I didn't drown in my own vomit or something. But Dudley-do-right had to call the paramedics.
I would refuse to go with my parents, I am a legal adult, and I will fight like hell if they try to drag me back to Illinois, I ran from them once, and I will do it again.
Gerard loved sleeping in. He hadn't done it in so long. For three days he was able to go to bed early and sleep late. It was beautiful.
Gerard stretched in his bed, listening for the crack of his muscles. He sighed contently and rubbed his eyes. Today his brother was coming over. He'd make lasagna and blast Iron Maiden as his brother drank himself silly. Gerard missed that.
He missed being able to have a beer and relax with his friends. Seeing Silver the other night reminded him why he didn't drink anymore. He hated missing parts of his life, the memories he could never retrieve. His heart went out to her, and he hoped she'd be able to get help. She would resist of course-he done exactly the same thing. It was natural, and it was worse when you believed you were dependent on it.
Gerard had done some digging, Silver's paintings intrigued him, she had talent. A few google searches later Gerard had come across 'The Art Deco Project' and it all seemed to make sense. A painting a day for a year was insane, it didn't surprise him why she drank.
Gerard had came up with his best work while intoxicated, but then again, his work was ten times better now that he was sober. It shouldn't matter to him-this girl-but it did.
He felt like he could save her, show her that she didn't need the alcohol or drugs. She could be free, and he wanted to free her.
The doctors had contacted my parents, I don't speak to them-ever. The last time we spoke was before my high school graduation ceremony-they had no clue my car was packed for New York. The minute I had my diploma I ran like hell for my car, I didn't even say goodbye. I drove for hours from my small town in Illinois and never looked back.
My parents were coming to the hospital, they were on a plane to come and get me-that's what the doctor kept telling me. I was "drying out" apparently, I didn't have a problem, I needed a paintbrush. I could control my urges, but this hospital stay was messing up my plan. I haven't blogged in a week, and I'm behind three paintings. The nurses gave me some crayons and finger paint-I feel degraded, I wonder if when Warhol was dying in the hospital if he was given the same things.
I doubt it, he was admitted willingly. I swear, if I ever lay eyes on my neighbor I will take him down. I understand he saved my life, but he could have just made sure I didn't drown in my own vomit or something. But Dudley-do-right had to call the paramedics.
I would refuse to go with my parents, I am a legal adult, and I will fight like hell if they try to drag me back to Illinois, I ran from them once, and I will do it again.
***
Gerard loved sleeping in. He hadn't done it in so long. For three days he was able to go to bed early and sleep late. It was beautiful.
Gerard stretched in his bed, listening for the crack of his muscles. He sighed contently and rubbed his eyes. Today his brother was coming over. He'd make lasagna and blast Iron Maiden as his brother drank himself silly. Gerard missed that.
He missed being able to have a beer and relax with his friends. Seeing Silver the other night reminded him why he didn't drink anymore. He hated missing parts of his life, the memories he could never retrieve. His heart went out to her, and he hoped she'd be able to get help. She would resist of course-he done exactly the same thing. It was natural, and it was worse when you believed you were dependent on it.
Gerard had done some digging, Silver's paintings intrigued him, she had talent. A few google searches later Gerard had come across 'The Art Deco Project' and it all seemed to make sense. A painting a day for a year was insane, it didn't surprise him why she drank.
Gerard had came up with his best work while intoxicated, but then again, his work was ten times better now that he was sober. It shouldn't matter to him-this girl-but it did.
He felt like he could save her, show her that she didn't need the alcohol or drugs. She could be free, and he wanted to free her.
♠ ♠ ♠
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