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I wasn't the best painter in the world, but if I tried hard enough, I could get recognized as someone famous and deserving of my title. They say that “famous painters are only famous after they die”. Something I’ve heard all my life, I’m tired of people blabbering about death when their life is right in front of their faces.
After finding out about the whole “going into storybooks” thing, I’ve been gathering narratonin to cure my mom, you know? My mom hasn’t been doing well since she got sick a couple of years ago. I’ve been trying everything to get out there, like posting art and paintings of nature, because people go crazy for paintings of lakes and rivers with a bunch of flowers or something like that.
My paintings haven’t been selling well online. I think I sold about 3 in my entire life! When I was going through books for the first time, I saw weirdly dressed royals and nobles dancing with fair ladies with their hair stacked up high like a tower, and I thought, “Maybe I should give this a try”.
After freaking out the first couple of times going into storybooks, I woke up to princes trying to kiss me; other than that, they love and appreciate the art I paint in the stories. I would hear their applause and smiles in the audience as they praised my paintings. That recognition is what I’ve been searching for, what I’ve been waiting for basically my whole life. A painting someone will be talking about for weeks, analyzing it like an ancient artifact: a calm, gentle observation handled with care or adoration for its shape and meaning.
Well, later in the books I’ve seen a strange brooding guy strutting around like he owned the place; frankly, I knew I was surrounded by a bunch of higher up snobs eating caviar, but this guy looked so off from the rest of the book people, even a regular book person compared to that guy looks like he stole his clothes and gave him the hand-me-downs.
One time when I was looking for some boring prince who was requiring me to talk to about the weather or something, suddenly, the brooding stranger grabbed me by my hood and slammed me against a wall!
Oh, also, he went on and on about the keys and how he finally found me, and if I don’t return the key, he'll totally behead me and leave me to the wolves or something.
I try to compromise some sort of plan on how to make both of us happy without involving violence, but of course, this rambling buffoon has the audacity to point a slimy finger at me and say something along the lines of, “After all that… and it’s just a small… weak little thing like you.”
And he put his grubby little fingers to my chin before he pushed me away while sassily sashaying somewhere else. He literally grabbed my chin! What a weirdo, because after that day, he started trying to sabotage my paintings and switched it with what looked like a baby and a stray kitten teamed up to make a finger painting, then threw up on it.
He just got under my skin, my second skin! And usually I wouldn’t let anyone get under my skin, no matter how much of a bully they are, but that guy has been creasing me all week!
After a couple of days of enduring the worst pestering I’ve ever had, he starts acting less aggressive toward me, even helping me with some of the story parts.
Sometimes, I even catch him looking over my shoulder just to watch me paint, “You know whatever you paint in stories won’t come with you when you exit out of storybooks, you’re wasting your time…” He’d say one day, his arms crossed and in the most annoyed pose paired with a calm expression I’ve never seen.
“I don’t care… I know you say paintings have little to no power in the story, but I practice in these stories that help me understand my audience and what they like; you’d never get it. You’re not a painter…” I spat back, looking over to my painting again to dab a bit of white for a highlight on a cloud.
“Practice? It looks like you need it… that stroke had so much to be desired…” He scoffs as he turns on his heel to walk off into the crowd.
I’d never seen someone walk this aggressively, especially after insulting someone's artistic talent. Last week, I believe that this guy has been warding off some of the princes for me, even though the book said that the princes had to fawn over the heroine or whatever, and I’m always drawing, so they’ll just have to compliment my artistic ability! So yeah, he started shooing away all the princes from the scene where they’re supposed to be.
I see him sitting on a bench while watching me paint a sunset. He probably thinks I’m going to paint him, fat chance! “What are you doing?” I blurted, an annoyed expression settled on my face.
“I’m sitting, what are you doing?” He shot back, crossing his arms accusingly, “What am I doing? Buddy, are you suddenly needing glasses now? I’m obviously painting, what else would I need an excessively large canvas propped on a easal with a palette and paint brush in my hands?” I roll my eyes, going back to painting some trees for the background.
After painting for a while, he just stares at me with his weird, hauntingly creepy blue eyes burning at the back of my skull. If I look away, it’ll probably claw my face out, kind of glare.
Even after I finished my painting, I could still feel his eyes on me from a distance, the sunlight shining in his eyes in a way where it looks like he was trying to hypnotize me with his gothic vampire energy—I mean, what? Vampire? Psshh, I didn’t say anything….
Anyways, even more books later, I see him sitting next to me, literally propping up a chair next to me and watching me paint so close you can see the texture and shine of the paint. I can even hear him telling me, quote unquote, “tips and tricks for my paintings”, little things like “This color would fit better here,” or “watch for your shapes, they can impact immensely on the product,” et cetera, and so on.
It was sweet at first, but after a while of hearing constructive criticism, it all just translates to backhanded compliments aunts give you when they secretly hate you.
“That sun would look better if it were lower in the sky-“ Buddy was then cut off by me, “Enough… alright? I’m done with the ‘advice’ you’re giving me, I think I’m okay on my own…” I huff, pouting as I turn back to my painting, ignoring all Buddy’s comments on my artwork.
If he wants the painting to look a certain way so badly, he should probably get his own canvas and paint whatever the heck he wants.
After telling Buddy off, he stops looking at me paint, he stops asking me about my paintings, and just sits there talking to some storybook people like his character is supposed to do, and the storybook princes he doesn’t shoo away anymore.
It’s so weird, but I’m not complaining or anything; it’s all so sudden from Buddy. He’s been all up in my business for days on end, and now he’s just ignoring me and dodging me like the plague.
Did he suddenly get offended by my opinion of what I wanted him not to do or something? I didn’t think he’d actually take it seriously. Even when I tried to talk to him—for storybook purposes—he’d just give me some sort of thousand-yard stare or look away into the distance like he’s distracted by something interesting.
I’m honestly done with that guy; he could go backflip off a cliff for extra points on a diving competition in Sweden. After a while of the distancing between us, I find myself painting that moron on an 8x8 canvas in my bedroom.
I think one time Deacon walked in on me painting him, too, and asked what Renaissance or Greek god I’m painting this time. Man, I wish I were painting a Greek god, that guy can’t compare to Poseidon!
Anyways, Deacon later catches on about the whole storybook stuff and sees the guy I’ve been subconsciously painting. He also keeps giving me death glares like he’s gonna kill me and thinks I don’t already have to deal with that stuff from Buddy.
After that book, he keeps lecturing me about the dangers of painting guys you don’t know and stuff. It was funny the first couple hundred times, but after telling me the same thing before and after every book we’ve done, I’ve basically had everything memorized by now.
Update: Buddy still hasn’t talked to me since that day, and I’m kinda getting worried. It’s almost like I don’t exist, and with Dorkin here, he’s been making my ears ring with safety protocols and endless rules with the words “stranger danger” in them. Maybe if I get Deacon busy, then talk to Buddy and make him look at me, maybe he’ll finally talk to me.
Update again: It’s no use, I mean, he did talk to me, but not do the thing I wanted to talk about… He pushed me away both literally and figuratively. He’s as clear as a stormy sky in April, and it’s not helping the miscommunication he’s giving off or the fact that he’s engrossed in annoying Deacon more than me, almost like he used to do to me—in a way…
I feel like I’m losing him, but he’s still right there, and I don’t know what to do—not that I’m worried or anything, but the banter was our thing, not Deacon’s… Yeah, sure, I kinda liked him for like a little bit and basically have a closet full of paintings of him, but that doesn’t mean anything! I just want him to talk to me again, to annoy me again, to look into my eyes just one last time like he used to…
One day, while doing a typical Cinderella story, Buddy actually approached me with his hands in his pockets. “Hey…” Buddy said simply, looking to the ground, “You finished your chores—for the story?”
I looked up at him, and he looked nervous and sweaty for some reason, like he just took the last cookie from the cookie jar. I give him a simple nod, “Yeah, I did… Why were you ignoring me? Most stories have the heroine and the villainess fighting sometimes… What’s up with that?”
Buddy sighs before looking up at me, his piercing blue eyes are softer, cooler, and serene. “I’m sorry, but we should go back to the story because—you’re not in the right scene…” He jumbled, taking my wrist and pulling me to another scene that happens later in the story, and I’m pretty sure he knows that too, considering that he’s a mister know it all.