Favored by Indivia

04

Chapter Four

In which she had f****d up.

-

[Ross Pagette Monstine.]

This is f*****g stupid.

I wasn’t sure how many canvases I had scrapped, but not a single one of them passed my liking. Everything feels like a joke. I feel like the whole world is expected to make a mess out of my life, and I simply have to do nothing but watch people ridicule everything that I had worked hard for. As the day continues to pass, my sister is steadily improving her skills—while I am barely holding on to something that I should be good at.

Instead of declining, I should be reaching heights that Ryli needed to catch onto.

Not the other way around.

Why the f**k am I hardwired like this?

“At this point, I would rather lose my mind than live through this again,” I breathed, eyes focused on what is before me.

Looking at it made me want to tear it apart. Everything is nothing but the shadows of color, fully capturing my inability to commit to a single subject. It feels overwhelming. Nothing is yet concrete in the canvas, enough that not one person could even know what I had done. However, I could see what I wanted to achieve.

And it was f*****g stupid.

“f*****g hell.”

Recalling everything that I had created made me question if there is even a single piece of art piece that I was proud of. Whenever I would paint a canvas, I had people telling me that I was improving and while I hardly see faults or errors in what I made—I thought that I was genuinely proud of them. Not because I felt like it, but only because people were noticing what I was doing.

Now, I could see that there was not a single art that resonates with me. I only offered them to people with a smile because I know that they will like them. I had spent hours on end, even losing some sleep just to hand art that I knew people would like. It was always like that. All that I ever do was to please others, not once giving a thought if I would like it.

For years, I heard numerous praises about what I do. People would often pay me to commission a piece that they wanted, and I would give my best to make sure that I deliver what they had envisioned. It was to that point—where I am making money for my skills. All wanted me to be proud of what I could do. And while I had been for the past years that I am dabbling on it—seeing all that I had kept in my room made me think otherwise.

Maybe it was because I rarely compare my works to others.

But I don’t think that I had made anything impactful.

Everything is just a brush of color, a small interpretation of the world that I added meaning to. Hardly anything made any artistic sense or would capture someone’s attention. It feels like what a generic artist would do—which just further makes me believe that I am no different from any of them.

Why would I think that I am someone high and mighty?

“Here you are, Ro. I have been looking all over for you. It is way past your free time.”

My eyes moved to the door, catching the sight of Vivian. As the mother of the group, of course, she would be the first to look for me. Maybe, even aware that something was wrong with me. While she was offering me a smile and bright expression, I could see a sense of panic in her eyes. It further announced her anxiousness when I caught the bead of sweat falling from her temple. She’s taking Civil Engineering, and I had seen the weight of her course—and yet, here she was in her free time.

Looking after me.

“I’m fine, Viv,” I mumbled, slowly taking down the canvas from the easel. She looked taken aback, before realizing what she looked like. It was easy to read her character, as I had been with her for years. Carefully letting her guard down, she took a seat next to mine. “You don’t need to worry about me. I am dealing with my emotions well, and from what I was aware—that is a good thing.”

“Is it?”

Confused at her words, I saw her beckon to the numerous scrapped canvas lying on the floor. Not once had this happened. I had completely forgotten about the scraps that I had tossed aside. None of my friends ever heard the words whispered by our family members—but they had seen the ample amount of people who would compare me to my sister. She had known how much that gets to me, so they hardly comments on anything that involved my sister.

Even though I know how much they like her.

“I am dealing with it in a manner that I knew would help,” I answered, now feeling a sense of confidence in my voice. “This is hardly anything that involves my sister. I just want to prove that this is where I am good at. I wanted to give myself time to improve my craft.”

The silence coming from Vivian speak just how stupid my words were—and trust me, I know. For years, I had done nothing but improve what I could do. I am vocal about the love and passion that I have for painting. Having to lose all inspiration and will to create art pieces doesn’t come from art block.

I am simply afraid of being compared again.

“Ro…”

“I know.” I nodded, eyes focused on the scrapped canvas. “To you—to everyone in our friend group, I know that I am good at what I am doing. Every day, you all shower me with compliments on how I improved with my art.”

“But that isn’t enough?”

“I don’t know.”

My lips shivered at the words, slowly sinking to the chair. It was all confusing. I am aware that I could attend classes if I wanted to, but tackling that feels like a restart in what I am doing. I know that their words should matter more, as they are the ones that I care about most. My brother, someone who fully supported me on this, would be the second to assure me that I am doing well. While I am aware of all of this, I couldn’t stop myself to react negatively.

“I never really asked you for this—but isn’t talking to Ryli would effectively fix this?” She asked, and I flinched at the words. Sitting straight, Vivian looked at me carefully. “I mean, Ryli dotes on you. If you asked her to stop—”

“Don’t even go there, Vivian.”

For some reason, that feels much annoying and a big smack to my ego. To think that she would stop at what she wanted just because I asked her to. Our relatives already mentioned how she is holding back to protect my ego, and here—Vivian wanted me to add more from that narrative?

I would rather not.

“Ross.”

“No.”

Slowly picking up my supplies, I left Vivian in the room without even saying anything. While I understand that she was just doing her best to help the situation, she wasn’t aware of how she just made it worse. Hearing Ryli’s voice last time speaks volumes. She genuinely wanted to try it.

If she stopped just because I had commanded her to, I would feel s**t.

For I would add more wood to people’s life, proving that I am indeed someone who just continued to hinder Ryli in what she wanted in life, just because I couldn’t keep up. That is now what I wanted to achieve.

I wanted to rise to my own capabilities.

.

.

It was easier said than done.

Rising in what I could do is hard when I could hardly make anything that I enjoy. My hand dribbled on the canvas, once again ruining the hours that I had spent doing the piece. Even if I am simply painting what I was seeing—there is criticism that I could hear from the back of my mind. It was loud, and possibly drowning any ounce of confidence that I have inside of me. There was no needed added perspective in this area since I am painting what I am simply seeing.

There was no needed field for imagination.

However, I am making things harder for myself.

“Heaven’s sake, Ross,” I mumbled under my breath.

The sketchbook that used to be filled with art that I am proud of seemed nothing like a joke. I could hardly remember how I could finish anything that I could count as passable in my palette. Slowly grabbing the sketchbook, I flipped to a blank page. For my own sanity, I needed to paint at least one that would calm my mind.

“Maybe I needed a new space to paint,” I mindlessly assure myself that I just needed a moment to get my inspiration. When I was young, nature is what inspired me to paint. So I knew that the school garden will be enough to appease my mind.

I can paint well.

“Don’t move so much,” my feet halted upon hearing a familiar voice. It took a second for me to see the source of the voice—and the second that I did, I paused. It was Matthias O’Shea. He’s sitting at the foot of the gazebo, a white notebook pressed to his hands whilst looking at the butterflies that rest on the arches.

With a flush of greenery surrounding him, he looked so at peace. His blonde hair reflects well with the sun, with those bright smiles from each stroke that he would do to his paper. Unaware of what I was doing, I leaned toward the large tree, carefully taking glances at him.

Every subtle movement from him feels like he was posing. It gives me a sense that I was back in art school, and focusing on a muse. The color of green and touches of white and pink give him an ethereal vibe—one that I noticed that I had captured perfectly.

Looking at the sketch that I had made, I shuddered at the thought that it was the first thing that passed my liking. Maybe it was because I didn’t spend too much time thinking about what I was painting, captured by the scenery that Matthias had given me.

“Fuck.” I mumbled, shuddering at the sketch. “Of course, this would happen.”

Frowning at what I had painted, I found myself closing the sketchbook altogether. When I pushed myself to paint that would capture back my inspiration, I was sure that I would paint the very thing that welcomed me in this craft: nature. Maybe even the clouds could help, as today is a good day. Ross Monstine frowned at what she had just painted. All of those sights had me completely mesmerized and would only be obvious for her to draw.

The sight that she had drawn, however, was nothing like those.

Instead of a picture of a place, I subconsciously painted someone. A man. Looking back at Matthias, who still has his entire focus on the small butterflies that float above him, I felt a small ache in my heart.

To all the people that I wanted to paint, it has to be him. My sister’s boyfriend.

Of course, I would have this f*****g luck.