Perfectly Imperfect

Sometime during the day, studying for an exam stopped being interesting and my main focus became the ruined painting that still sat on my easel. I stared at it from the kitchen table, the single black smear mocking me in some way as I finished up the last of my lunch; It screamed vile things that reminded me of last night. Without thinking, I stood up from my chair and rushed into the studio, my mind flying to a million places. I gripped the painting tightly before snapping of the frame's four corners and tearing the canvas to shreds with a nearby pair of scissors.

I couldn't forget about the humiliation I was put through last night; I couldn't forget the way my heart raced in my chest when my parents left me to speak to Spencer for a few moments before I ran off to see Dashiell once again. My fingers ran through my white hair before I threw the ruined, imperfect masterpiece at the wall, jumping at the loud smacking sound that it made. I couldn't, no, wouldn't forget the way those blue eyes bore into me when I ran into him before we had met.

Shaking my head, I grabbed a new canvas that was sitting nearby and placed it onto the easel. Quickly, I grabbed my brushes and bottles of paint before pulling on my apron. There was always one thing that I always turned to when life was bothering me; that one thing was painting. Before I could even realize it, splashes of purple, green, yellow, and blue were spread across the white, creating an image that wasn't even planned. I backed away from it, staring at my creation in awe. These were the moments that I enjoyed the most; the moments where I impress myself with perfection.

I pulled the apron off, placing it back on it's hanger before washing my brushes and cleaning up the leftover paint. The beautiful flower reminded me of a bush that used to be in my mother's garden; one that I used to pick the flowers from to give to her when I was little. My eyes glanced over at the canvas that laid on the floor, questioning my violent actions at a single imperfection.

As I sat the broken and torn painting beside the trashcan, my phone began to ring on the kitchen counter. My thumb swiped across the touchscreen, answering the call before holding the phone up to my ear. “Hello?” I asked, fiddling with a pen that was sitting nearby, clicking it open and closed before dropping it back onto the counter when I heard my mother speak. “Frost, I do hope your house is clean; I gave Spencer your address and his mother said that he would be stopping by sometime today to speak with you.”

“Mother, wh-why did you do that? What does he even have to talk to me about?” I asked her, suddenly not knowing how to respond to her words. It was so sudden, so unexpected and typically she wouldn't give my address out to just anyone. I grabbed the pen once again, walking through my house to make sure that everything was in order.

“Frost, someone needs to show you some manners and at least your father and I know someone around you age who can do just that. You're nineteen years old and you've been acting like a rebellious teenager that thinks there are no rules and that his parents don't even exist. Your father and I raised you better than this,” Mother said, a concerned tone holding her voice.

I leaned against the entrance to my kitchen before I muttered, “Mom, I don't even know what you're talking about; I've always respected you and Dad; I even go to the dinner parties that you know I hate with a burning passion.”

I heard her let out a frustrated sigh before she said, “Spencer is coming over, Frost; whether you like it or not. I expect you to treat him with respect and please, please, please – I can't stress this enough – don't let him find out about your little hobby.” I rolled my eyes at her words before saying, “Yes, Mother. I'll be watching for him, but next time would you please give me a warning a few days before things like this are going to happen.”

She softly chuckled, “I promise. Now, I have to go get your father out of the wine cabinet; we have guests of our own this evening. I love you.” I covered my mouth, imagining my father stumbling around and leaning on their company as if he didn't have a care in the world, and tried to suppress my laughter. “Love you too, Mom.”

I placed the phone back on the counter before wandering back into my art studio, making sure everything was in order before locking the door and shutting it as I left the room. Instantly, I reached into my pocket, my hand wrapping around the cool metal of the key. Every time my parents, or someone my parents knew came to my apartment, I was forced to lock my studio as if it didn't even exist.

When I was a child, I loved to draw. Art was my favorite class in school and the teacher praised me quite often, telling me that she had high hopes for me in the future. After my accident, when I was in the hospital, my sketchbook kept of my attention at all hours of the day. I'd sketch out my dreams, people, the view from the window, just almost anything you could think of.

When I was accepted into the local university, my parents thought I was going to major in business or economics, but instead, I chose my one talent that I loved the most; art. I couldn't lie; they were upset with me when they first found out and I knew that they still were. It was the main reason why I chose to move out after high school and it was the reason why they made me hide my studio whenever someone came over.

My feet drug across the floor as I walked towards my room to change out of my sweats into a white v-neck, gray cardigan, and a pair of jeans. I had no way of knowing when Spencer would be coming over to pay me a visit and I really didn't want to talk to him about my “rebellious” ways. I tried organizing the house a little bit, attempting to make everything look like it was in order and took a seat on the couch.

Mother should have warned me last night if she had planned for Spencer to come over to see me; I hated the fact that she gave out my address to someone I barely knew. I stared up at the white ceiling before covering my face, trying to understand my mother's words.

Time ticked away slowly on the clock and I must have dozed off at one point because I woke up to the sound of someone knocking on my door. I sat up quickly, running a hand through my hair before smoothing my wrinkled clothes and wandering towards the door to let my guest in. Spencer stood there, the epitome of perfection, with a smirk on his lips as I stepped away from the door, letting him in.

“Would you like anything to drink?” I asked, awkwardly, as he looked around my living room, sitting down on the recliner and saying, “Water would be fine.” I nodded, heading towards the kitchen, hands shaking. He was perfect while I looked like someone who just climbed out of bed; I literally just woke up from an unintentional, afternoon nap.

I grabbed a bottle of water out of the fridge and began to make a pot of coffee. My eyes stared at the kitchen counter for a moment before I wandered back into the living room, handing him his drink before taking a seat back on the couch once again. His blue eyes bore into me before I said, “I'm sorry if the house is a little bit of a mess; Mother didn't tell me you were coming over until a little while ago. I-I tried my best to clean up in the short time that I had.” I felt so awkward sitting near him, looking like a complete train-wreck.

“Did she happen to tell you why I came over here today to talk to you?” He said, staring at me before taking a sip out of the bottle. I watched as he placed it down onto the coffee table before my eyes met his blue orbs once again as I spoke, “I presume to fulfill my mother's request from last night.” I almost rolled my eyes as I spoke, but quickly stopped myself, knowing that I was being watched very carefully by the older male.

He chuckled softly, “Well, you're right. Our mothers thought it would be best if I taught you some manners; only because they thought that I was a perfect example for this kind of thing. I'm sure you'll allow me to help you, correct?”

I scoffed, staring at him, “I don't need any help. I have no idea why Mother thought that I'd need a tutor for something that her and my father pounded into my head since I've been able to talk. I'm nineteen years old; I can fend for myself and I have been for a little over a year now.” I stood up, agitated, walking back into the kitchen before pouring myself a cup of coffee. I leaned against the counter, letting out a sigh.

Spencer stepped into the kitchen before saying, “Your mother didn't lie when she said you were stubborn. Frost, trust me, you don't want to go down that path; if you keep ignoring your parents and not follow by their rules, horrible things are going to happen to you.” I stared at him for a long moment, chewing at my lip as his eyes trailed down to the destroyed painting sitting next to the trashcan. He picked it up, staring at it before muttering, “I figured you were a painter.”

My face went red as my mother's words ran through my mind. “Don't let him find out about your little hobby.” I could feel my face heat up as I stuttered, “I-I do no such thing. Painting isn't practical at all and I have to put all my attention towards my classes; I don't even have the time or money to buy the supplies needed for it.” He watched me very carefully before nodding his head.

“And I'm sure the signature in the corner is someone who happens to have the exact same initials as you,” he said, smirking. Even though he seemed proper about everything, I could tell that he enjoyed teasing me. I knew that my face was a deep shade of red before I shut my eyes and sighed, “Maybe I do have a knack for painting. What made you think it before you found the canvas?”

He smiled softly before saying, “The way your house is organized in a certain messy, but creative way; there's also paint splotches on your arms and hands.” I glanced down at my pale skin, noticing the faintest trace of purple, green, and blue on my wrists and thumbs.

My eyes watched him carefully before he placed the painting on the counter, laying it flat so that the shattered frame would hold together, slowly piecing together the tattered image. He stared at it for a long moment before running his finger along the black imperfection; there was a certain look in his eyes that seemed as if he could relate to the painting. He looked up at me before mumbling, “T-This painting is beautiful; you have a talent, but if I may ask, why did you destroy it?”

“It was imperfect,” I simply said, staring at his blue eyes, and suddenly I felt as if I could relate to him in some strange way.