This is my entry for the weekly prompt: BRILLIANT
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Asymmetrical figures forming random patterns painted on a canvas caught Marion’s attention while he was at a gallery. It was the only painting disregarded by art enthusiasts who were with him that day.
“Tell me, what do you see?”
A man’s voice from behind disturbed his moment of silence and appreciation.
“I see agony in the distorted triangular faces. But when I tilt my head to the right, they’re smiling. When I tilt to the left, I see stars in their eyes, like they’re rejoicing in a success,” he said without looking at whoever spoke to him.
“Tell me how you feel about it.”
“Envy.” Silence followed when he spoke. “I wish I have hands to create such a masterpiece.”
He didn’t hear a response, so he turned around. No one was there.
He sighed at the thought that he had been hearing things. He scoffed at the idea that after not eating for two days because of trying to paint with his feet, even his sense of hearing was failing.
“What a shame for an invalid like me.”
Marion walked to the next portrait, where polygons shaped like a horse, together with a woman, were the star. Like the first art, no one paid attention to it.
“Guess they’re not up for aesthetic,” he muttered to himself.
“You think so?” the same voice he heard earlier said.
Marion adjusted his hood. His heart was already skipping like a drum beaten by a mad drummer, pumping volumes of erythrocytes to his head, giving him a headache.
“Who’s there?” he yelled and turned toward where the voice came from.
Some observers stopped their steps just to look at him, startled.
“Shh. Cut the noise. People might laugh at you,” the voice said as if he was beside him. Marion could feel the speaker’s warm breath at the back of his ears. “Just pretend you can’t hear me, and keep analyzing the portrait.”
Marion scanned the reactions of the surrounding people. Some of them looked disgustingly at him, wearing a red hooded sweatshirt with signs of not being changed for two days. Some dust from the street and dried colors from his palette clung to the fabric of his outfit.
“Do you not remember the artist of those two paintings?” the voiced hissed again.
Marion shook his head.
“Can you not remember the reason those were painted?”
He shrugged.
“The one who painted that was a hero. And as tribute to his deed, the child he saved asked his parents to display his artwork here at their gallery.”
“No one knows the painter?” Marion asked. “I mean, if people know a hero painted these, they might be interested in interpreting the masterpieces.”
“Every famous painter’s life is poignant. Most of them don’t get acknowledgement or praise for their art until they’re dead. Look to your left.”
Marion obliged.
To his surprise, a boy approached the first painting he was looking at earlier. He was with some children, wearing the same green checkered uniform as his. His eyes were as brilliant as diamonds under the rays of the sun, matching his bright smile.
Marion instinctively walked closer to the group without being noticed and listened to the boy brag about the painting, giving his own interpretation of it.
“Among the hanged portraits here, this is my favorite,” the boy said. “Life has many faces, and I think that was what the painter wants us to know. There are various circumstances we face every day, letting us know we’re humans, capable of feeling all sorts of emotions.”
He then turned to Marion’s direction with a long face and continued talking.
“The artist of this portrait is a handicap, but that didn’t stop him from dreaming. He didn’t let his incapacity hinder him from doing what he loves to do and from being a human with a kind heart. He deserves this spot in our gallery. I will forever be grateful to him. I owe him my second life.”
The boy sniffed and wiped the tears in his eyes. Marion subconsciously imitated the boy when some wet and warm liquid kissed his cheeks.
“He’s such a wonderful boy. What happened to the artist?” he said, hoping the voice would speak to him again. No one answered, so he decided to step out of the gallery.
His feet absent-mindedly brought him to an alleyway where people gathered. In their hands were white flowers. Some even lit candles.
He took several steps to mingle with the crowd, but a subtle wind blew him to an old newspaper stand.
“Have I been so thin that the wind could blow me?”
Although baffled and confused with what had just happened, Marion grabbed a newspaper whose cover depicted a guy wearing the same clothes as his.
The headline read:
A HOBO PAINTER SAVED A BOY
Marion scanned the page where the news was, and his eyes almost dropped at what he had read.
“An armless man saved a boy from being hit-and-run afternoon of July 7. According to the witnesses, the boy was running across the street when a black Mazda sped. The street painter ran towards the boy and blocked his body against the car. Unfortunately, he didn’t make to the hospital, and the driver of the car escaped. The authorities are still looking for the reckless driver.”
Tears streamed down Marion’s face realizing the truth. He ran back to the museum when flashes and figments of memories flooded him. There he saw the same boy, still admiring the painting. He rushed to and called him, but the boy didn’t seem to notice his presence.
“Don’t you think the artist of this portrait is brilliant?” a man who just approached the boy asked. He wore a black tuxedo. His gray hair matched his mustache and beard well.
“He is,” the boy said. “Not only does his artwork speak about his interpretation of life, he even proved the emotions in the painting when he saved me.”
“Aren’t you smart yourself? How old are you?”
“Seven.”
“Did you get the name of your savior?”
“Nope. I only have his initial.” The boy pointed at the lower left corner of the canvas.
Seeing the letter M to where the boy was pointing choked Marion with melancholy. He felt tiny fingers crushing, squeezing his heart. He knelt to the tiled floor and mourned.
The initial was his. He remembered signing his paintings with M because it was the only letter he knew.
The man simply looked in Marion’s direction while talking to the boy.
“Isn’t it ironic how mentally troubled and physically challenged people could create artworks that are considered beautiful, although the life of those artists isn’t all rainbows and unicorns? Come to think of it, those who have less in life could give more to those who have the best of both worlds. Perhaps not all endings are bad, and not all stories start at the beginning.”
