Other Fan Fiction ❯ Creating life. ❯ chapter one part 1 ( Chapter 1 )

[ P - Pre-Teen ]

If you looked outside, all you would see is the balconies of other apartments that were stacked on top of each other. Clothes hung on wires put there to dry out since they had no dryers, or they just didn’t use them period.
Flowerpots and empty beer bottles, to ashtrays and buckets of stuff, fermented foods and sacks of dirt were the variety of each and everyone’s balcony. Phone lines above and the ground that was littered with papers and garbage that didn’t’t make it to the large dumpster at the end of the alley. Hoodlum’s yelled and feral cats hissed and whined at the slightest sound. Beyond the alley were cars and people dressed up fancy to get to their job or just to look nice.
Most were on their mobile phone, hollering above the honks and yells from the cars and the drivers who are just as anxious to get to work.
Inside my apartment was no different. Papers of countless doodles sat on the floor, a couch on the south wall that was covered with clothes and plates of leftover foods from the previous day. Across from it was a small television that was again piled with plates, papers and sketchbooks. The wood floor creaked when I walked across it, which gave a very comforting feel to the one bedroom apartment that I so proudly owned. And in the corner- my most prized and loved possession, an easel with a canvas on it with a tray of paints and turpentine and paintbrushes all cluttered on a small table that sat next to the easel. The canvas however was empty and blank. I had yet to gain inspiration and take up my brush and give life to the canvas.
That is, if I could think of something worth painting. Hence why I sat on the ledge of my window staring into the streets as if desperately searching for something- anything to draw.
The rest of the room however is not worth mentioning since really, my whole life revolved around the living room. The bedroom was equipped with only a bed, which I hardly used, and a closet that was stacked full of clothes. Most were too small and too big and were left to collect dust and wear out over time.
I took a drag at my cigarette, which was reduced to the butt, and I so proceeded to snuff it out on the little bowl I used as an ashtray. The smoke lingered in the room giving the room a foggy feel. I didn’t mind. I didn’t care.
Clad in only my underwear and a single white T-shirt, I shut the window. The draft increased and chilled my bare legs. I proceeded to the kitchen and stared blankly at the mess in the sink. I opted to open the fridge, realizing my stomachs cries for food.
But incidentally, I had forgotten to buy food the previous night. And so I dressed myself warmly and neatly and headed out the door.
Out of all the things I wore, my scarf and my hat were the ones always to leave the house. They were presents from my aunt who I seldom cared for but I adored the present she had so graciously bought me for my sixteenth birthday.
The scarf came shortly after when I concluded that the cap needed a matching pair. The rest of me was plain- a button up jacket that resembled just about everyone else’s jacket and black jeans that were torn at the knees.
My feet felt cramped in the old worn down shoes I always wore. I thought it was time for new shoes.

The grocery store just around the corner beyond the endless cafes and designer shops sat just at the bend with tables full of vegetables and fruit outside for people to look and be drawn into the store. I stepped inside, bracing myself for the cold draft that always welcomed me.
I took what I needed and piled it into a basket and carried them back to the cashier. The cashier lady was plump and for lack of a better word- obnoxious. But otherwise, she did her best to be kind, but it always turned out to be a more indifferent attitude.
Aside from the cashier, there were other regulars who appeared everyday. Since the upgrade, the store was able to put in a small café in the corner. It was quaint and suitable for those who hated the big crowds that crowded other popular cafes. The warming smell of coffee always welcomed customers, inviting those to spend a few bucks for a cup of coffee that lured them there. An old man always made his way there. He was aged and looked as if his time would appear any minute. But when approached, he was a lively man with quirky remarks that always pulled a laugh or two. When I appeared, his face would beam.
“ Aidan! Nice to see you again!” He would cry and then, “ Where’s your engagement ring eh? Better get one yet, if not, they’ll be all gone!”
And as always I gave him a smile and went about my shopping. Another regular, I found, always made her stay in the store. I’d find her roaming the isle and when I caught her eye, she would smile. If I asked her about her day however, she would erupt into speech- so much I had a hard time grasping her way of speaking. But she was interesting. She was an artist, who stopped painting when she ran out of funds. But she still had the same passion she had when she started a new canvas.
“ How are your studies coming along? What are you studying now?” She would ask casually after a few moments silence.
“ Mucha. Alfons Mucha.”
She would nod and then smile serenely. Her weathered hand would touch my shoulder almost mother like. At that point I would wear a smile and take my leave.
Not a lot of people knew of me, but when they did, they always seemed to feel sorry for me. I found it weird that they should feel sympathy to a total stranger, especially in such a big place as Vancouver.
But as I grew accustomed to the place, and from tuning into small gossip, most of these people were from smaller towns, where everyone was friendly. I later found out that they left because they were charged with small accounts of criminal acts, or they couldn’t live there either their money funds ran out, or the place wasn’t booming. Some now were homeless and the rest barely scraped by.
The last regular was in her teens. She was sent down by her grandmother to do the shopping. Like the others, she was bustling with life and always wore a genuine smile that almost put me in envy. Compared to her, I gave off a sort of melancholy that contrasted to her convivial ways.
As I made way to the exit, hoping to pass by unnoticed, my groceries swinging behind me, ramming my thighs, the girl spotted me. Her bright eyes honed down on me and soon she was dancing towards me.
“Ah! Aidan! How’s it going?” She chirped.
I stopped just short of her, scrounging for an answer that would satisfy her. It seemed whenever I tried to bluff; she was able to see right through it. And as much as I tried, she would persist until she knew the truth. It was her way of making talk and keeping up friendships.
“ Peachy,” I replied simply.
Her sarcastic look appeared and she frowned. I knew she knew I was lying, but I was in no mood to tell her my dilemmas.
“ You sure don’t look it,” She said.
I pushed past her and pushed the door open that resisted against the wind outside. I stepped out into the cold, immediately wishing that I were back inside where the warmth was.
“ Are you okay?”
Damn. I turned to see that the girl had followed me. Half of her remained in the store, her head popping out into the cold. Her smile was gone.
“ Don’t you have some shopping to do?”
I turned my head, to face her. The girl stepped fully out onto the street. Her smile reappeared as she bounced towards me.
“ Nope, not today. I just came down to say hi to everyone,” She said.
Her brown hair lay in curls and bounced as she moved. She wore a beret to keep her hair neat. Her overcoat was old and worn, but she said it kept her warm and she refused to get another jacket. The paint on the brass buttons was scraped down until you could see the brass metal.
I continued on my way towards my apartment, the girl in tow. She was ranting on her day, of how her grandparents took a fall down the stairs. She spoke casually despite the severity of what she was talking about.
Just short of my doorstep, I turned to face her. She had begun speaking of the weather and potential storms she had heard on the radio this morning.
“ Is that all?” I asked her.
She grew silent her smile withdrew from her usual cheerful face. Her hand flew to her hat where she adjusted it to by the time away. Like she was trying to keep me out as long as possible. That she knew that I would disappear.
I opened the door and as I entered, I kept my gaze on her.
“ Bye,” She said quietly and receded down the hall, her shoulders hunched and pathetic looking.

She was born somewhere in Ontario, she had told me. Her parents had left her in Vancouver when she was barely able to realize that she was abandoned. And as far as she could remember, two old folks had taken her in when they found her on the streets. I had asked her why she lives as happily as she does even if her parents had abandoned her.
“ Just gotta learn to shut those feelings away,” She had said with the same cheerful expression she always wore.
We met in the grocery store a few years back. Though she was younger and hardly ever talkative, she always tried to be nice. Most people though, were satisfied to ignore her. Whenever I walked into the store, she could always be found sitting by the coffee machine. She never read when she was there, nor did she buy herself any coffee. She had told me once that she hated the taste of coffee because it made her sick. Instead, she would simply sit there and watch the customers pass and often she would keep to herself, deep in thought. Nobody questioned her, nor did they approach her.
One day when I was making a trip to the only art supply store just an hour away from where I lived, the girl was sitting in an alley. I wondered why she would be sitting in such a shady place. But as I approached her, I realized that she wasn’t moving. Up close, her face was badly bloodied with cuts and fresh bruises. Her clothes were torn in places that were dirtied with her own blood. She came to when I gently rubbed the blood off her face. Panic stricken, she flailed and screamed, as any woman would do in distress.
When she came to next, she was lying in the bed of my apartment. Her bruises had ripened to a deep purple with tinges of green. Her right eye the doctor said was badly damaged. She wouldn’t be able to see through that eye. Though sometimes I claimed she could see through that eye just fine. Her cuts healed with time and left ugly scars.
Often I would leave her and return to find her sitting in the living room staring off into the distance, like she always did at the store. She would snap out of it when I told her that I had brought her food.
She told me that strange men had cornered her – she concluded to be the FBI out to get her. I later figured out that it was a bunch of men who wanted her money. When she refused to give them information – or money, they proceeded to beat her up. She had lost consciousness right after they nipped her of her money.

Now she hardly thought about it, and people warmed up to her, possibly sympathizing for being roughed up like that. I was also dubbed as a hero- against my wishes. They concluded that if I had not passed that way and helped her, she wouldn’t have made it, which was true, but I hated the glorification and ignored everyone’s attempt to congratulate me. But thanks to me, she became more talkative. It seemed like she had woken up for the first time, like she realized that sitting and staring off into space wasn’t going to do any good. When I asked her why she did that she simply said
“ It’s a daunting world out there. Sometimes it’s better to just get lost in your own world. That way there’s nothing in your way,” She said with a smile.
So this whole time she had been lost in her own world, because she was afraid of the outside world. But she didn’t seem to be now since she hardly was ever staring off into space.

The painting I had started slightly resembled the works of Van Gogh, though I never got into finishing it after I decided that I didn’t like the colours I had chosen. It was of my living room. The colours were warm with brown and grey to tone down the painting to a more melancholic touch. But I found it boring after a while. To contrast it, I coloured the couch red.
I picked up my palette and dabbed in a blotch of white. And as I begun adding outlines of white to the window where the light hit, the features of my own room began to appear. I painted with my right hand despite my being left-handed. It didn’t affect me much or my art. After practicing and endless rejects of discarded paintings, I mastered the art with my right hand.
Whenever I drew with my left hand, the drawings would spring up in to life. My mother thought it was a blasphemy. Creative beings would dance in my living room; even letters I had written would come to life. I secretly liked my drawings springing up into life. But I was forbidden to draw with my left hand when I accidentally let loose one of my creations. It wandered down into the park. It resulted in a riot of screaming mothers and fathers pathetically trying to defend themselves with whatever they were equipped with. We moved shortly after that.
Now, I never thought of drawing with my left hand. Being so used to drawing with my right hand, my left hand was soon forgotten. I liked my art on paper. Not dancing around my room. I only drew them because I was lonely. They were substitutes for friends I never had.
It was later when I realized that some of them could talk, though I didn’t know how they did. But it seemed to talk when I had previously wished for a friend to talk to. Like my imagination would create the being that I had wished for. If I was good, I could create anything.
One drawing that stuck around was an ugly figure of a cat that I drew a long time ago. It acted like a real cat, except I never had to feed it. It would mingle in and out my bedroom to my living room when I wanted company. You could see through its body, a black outline defined the cat and that was it. It sat on the window ledge of my only window. Purring and watching my movements, it meowed. I looked at it briefly and put down my brush.
It stared and as I reached out to touch it, its eyes made as if to smile.
“You’re one warped kitty,” I murmured.

Summer rolled in, people switching overcoats for light cardigans to plain T-shirts and shorts. Life was more vibrant on the streets now, with brightly dressed women and men in white shirts rather than the dull old dress coats they wore to keep warm. The girl, Yuki, stood by my doorstep as I rechecked my apartment for anything I had forgotten.
“ Come on, hurry, how come you’re always late?” She said.
I closed the door to my apartment, my sketchbook under my arm with a small bag that held my pencils and charcoals. Yuki also was holding a sketchbook. She decided that she needed to learn how to draw. I said I’d teach her, but I began to regret it as soon as I said it. We decided that we would settle down by the seawall to watch the boats.

Settled under some treetops just aside from the sidewalk where people biked, walked, and even rollerbladed casually. Crows cackled amongst themselves, fighting for bits of bread cast aside from someone’s lunch. Dogs ploughed with the owner in tow. Yuki was sitting on the ledge of the wall, her sketchbook placed on her lap, her back bent as she drew. I took to the comfort of the benches. After a while, I began to doze, dreaming sparsely of my school days.